


That Old Feeling

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [25]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Begging, Come Swallowing, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Facials, Homelessness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Polyamory, Punching, Rentboys, Rimming, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M, kicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3412778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since I put the memory of him away, and these days I barely think of him at all. Maybe once a month, my mind might drift onto the idea of him, and I might smile or wince to myself, before I push the thought aside. And now here he is, sitting on my sofa, half a familiar face and half a complete stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The two-year gap between 'These Foolish Things' and 'That Old Feeling' is partially covered in the second and third Gunsel Sidestories: ['Courting Trouble'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2728403), and ['The End of the Line'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3229907). These aren't essential to understanding 'That Old Feeling', but they provide some extra background information about the current state of affairs.

"Johnny," the kid says, closing the door behind him. "Johnny, there's a guy outside asking for you."

"Is there?" I get up off the sofa, and run my hand through my hair. "What kind of guy?"

"Good-looking," he says, grinning. "Definitely your type."

"Well, that hardly narrows it down, does it? I've got lots of types."

The kid shrugs. "Dark hair, pretty face, flowery perfume, shimmery suit. That's your second-favourite type to a tee, Johnny."

"Oh yeah?" I laugh. "And what's my first?"

Tommy grins again, and says "Rough around the edges, with a heart of gold."

"Alright, well, you can demonstrate some of that kind-heartedness and mind the office for me, while I find out Mr Second-Best wants."

"Sure thing, Johnny," the kid says, and perches himself on the edge of the desk.

When I first started this job, the club dazzled me every time I stepped out of my office. So much gold, so much velvet, so many of those dangly crystal chandeliers twinkling right in my eyes. It was like being on a red carpet every time, getting blinded by flash bulbs. Nowadays when I come out of my office, I only see things that need doing. Now it's chairs that need tidying, picture frames that need straightening, bannisters that need polishing, boys that need chivvying along, clients that need buttering up. Now it's a big, loud, colourful to-do list. Most nights that's all it is. But tonight, suddenly, like a ghost or a daydream, there's _him_.

He's sitting at a table in the centre of the room. No heavies this time, just him. Sitting alone, sipping slowly at a glass of something clear, watching the people coming and going around him. Seeing his face is like being shown a picture-book of a faraway place, a place I know I've been, but it seems so long ago. Five years. His eyes are the same, even now. Dark, knowing, and slightly amused. His mouth is the same, too. The same full dusky pink lips, with the same smile curling at the edges. What's changed is how he holds himself. There's none of the crackling energy that made him seem like a spring coiled too tight. He looks calm, and content, and in control. Five years can do a lot. I wonder if they've done anywhere near as much to me.

"Hello, Camille," I say, as I approach the table.

"Hello, Johnny," he says, getting up. He's wearing a silver suit, with a half-sheer black shirt, open at the collar. There's a little silver chain around his neck, so thin you can barely see it, with a tiny tear-shaped diamond pendant. He's still as slightly-built as he was back then, but he looks stronger now, livelier, healthier. There's even a bit of pinkness to the bronze of his cheeks, rosier than anything rouge could have given him. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"A very long time." I smile at him, and put my hand out, not to be shaken, just to be held. "D'you want to come through to the office? This is no place to talk."

"Yes," he says, smiling back as he takes my hand. "Yes, please, I'd like that very much."

He follows me across the floor to the office, and when I open the door, Tommy's still perched on the edge of the desk where I left him, only now he's got his tatty little copy of _War of the Worlds_ in his hands. He's read it four times already, and I'm so sick of seeing the damn thing that I'm starting to wish Miller had never given it to him in the first place.

"Tommy," I say, ushering Camille into the room, "wait outside, and make sure no-one disturbs us."

"Sure thing, Johnny," he says, grinning at me. His eyes are saying _Man, if you're going to get down to it with this guy I wish you'd let me stick around to watch_. But then as he looks at Camille again, he seems to realise that this is more than a pickup. His grin fades down into a smile, and he turns back to me and says "If you need me, give me a shout."

"Your friend seems nice," Camille says, with a little smile, once the kid's gone.

"Who, Tommy? He's a pain in the neck, that's what he is."

He smiles a bit more, and says "He's quite protective of you."

The look on his face stops me putting up any more of a pretence, and I nod, and say "He's my right hand, that kid. I don't know what I'd do without him."

"I'm glad." He sits down on the sofa, and crosses his legs. "I'm glad you've done so well for yourself."

"What, all this?" I laugh, and sit down next to him, shaking my head. "Don't be too impressed, it's more trouble than it's worth. You should see the amount of cash we have to fork over to the coppers every month just to keep the doors open."

He laughs, briefly and softly. "How long have you had this place?"

"Coming up on two years now, just about."

"It suits you," he says, giving me a beautiful, smooth, placid smile.

"Where have you been?" I say, suddenly, before I can stop myself. It comes out blunter than I intended, but now that I've asked the question, I feel more relieved than embarrassed.

"Didn't he tell you?" Camille looks surprised, just for a moment, and then he laughs again. "Switzerland. Mr Turner knows a doctor there. It's a very nice place," he carries on, looking at me with steady, happy eyes. "Beautiful scenery, and very peaceful."

"I'm surprised you wanted to come back to all this." I wave my hand at the door, and then the window behind my desk, which looks out onto the alley at the back of the club. "It's not exactly picturesque round here, is it?"

"I missed it." He shrugs slightly. "I know it sounds silly, but I did. Deep down, I always knew I'd come back, once everything was settled. I belong here, Johnny. I'm as much a part of this city as you are, and it's a part of me."

I look at him, with that beautiful face and that small, graceful frame, and I wonder how a city as squalid as this one ever produced a boy like Camille. But the thought gets stuck in my throat, and instead I say "Does the boss know you're back, then?"

"Of course," he says, with a little giggle. "Do you think I could have even set foot on the plane if he hadn't given his approval?"

"Oh, I don't know," I laugh. "I wouldn't put it past you to slip away while no-one was looking."

"Maybe a long time ago I would have," he says, looking down at his hands for moment. When he looks up, he's smiling at me evenly. "But not anymore."

"Well, anyway," I say, kicking myself for saying something so stupid. "What are you going to do, now you're back?"

"I want to sing again. Nothing very strenuous, I've got no great ambitions. I just want to sing in front of an audience again, if I can."

"Why don't you sing here, then?" The words spill out of me before I know what I'm saying. "You'd be doing me a big favour, Camille. Our takings have been going down for months, but having you in residence would pick it right up. And besides, the boss is bound to want you somewhere he can keep an eye on you."

"Johnny, please," he says, shaking his head, " _please_ don't pretend. If you want me around, you must be honest about it. I can't—"

"I'm sorry," I start to say, but he puts his hand up to stop me.

"I don't want to play games anymore," he carries on, "I don't want to waste time lying and manipulating. I've ruined so many things in my life that way. Please, Johnny, just be honest with me."

"Alright," I say, nodding. "Alright, I will. I promise."

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Johnny, can we go on holiday? We ain't been away together for ages."

"Yeah, and for good reason," I say, as he locks the front door behind us. "Who's going to run the club, if me and you are both away at the same time?"

"You could leave David in charge." He takes my jacket off, and goes off to hang it up, throwing me a little smile over his shoulder as he walks away. "He'd be up to the job, and he'd get a real kick out of it, too, wouldn't he?"

"He would." I nod, and lean against the back of the sofa. "Well, where d'you want to go? And mind, I'm not saying we _are_ going. I'm just saying, if we _did_ —"

"Can we go to the seaside?" He interrupts me, grinning. "You're always on about how much you love the coast."

"Oh, I know what this is about," I laugh. "You want to go and stay with Mr Middleton's lot, don't you? I can see right through you, kid, so don't try to give me any flimflam about enjoying the invigorating sea air."

He comes up close, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body warming the air between us. "Yeah, but it'd be _real_ invigorating, wouldn't it, Johnny?"

"Sure," I say, grabbing hold of the back of his neck, pulling him closer. "So invigorating you'd need a week in the country to recover."

"What's the matter," he says, handing me the perfect invitation with those gleaming eyes and those smirking lips, "you going soft, Johnny? Maybe you can dish it out these days but you can't take it."

"You watch that mouth, kid," I say, tightening my hand on his neck. "Maybe I let you play the tough guy at work, but don't you forget your place."

"Oh yeah?" He grins at me, squaring his shoulders a bit, looking up at me as if he thinks he can gain a couple of inches of height just by swaggering enough. "And what place is that, eh?"

My left hand grabs his hair, yanking his head back, and my right swings down across his face in a hard, swift backhand. He looks up at me, eyes flashing and lips parted, still grinning. "A punk like you," I say, lower and quieter, "belongs on his knees." I let go of his hair, and slap him harder, heavy enough to make him reel back a bit. He's a solid little bruiser these days, sure, but there's a big difference between what a boy can take in the boxing gym, and what he can take when he's flushed hot with lust and aching to be fucked.

"Is that right?" he says, breathily, rubbing his cheek with his fingertips. "Then how come I'm still on my feet?"

"Generosity." I slap him again, with my palm this time, and while he's reeling from that I grab hold of his shoulders, and slam him backwards against the wall. "I thought I'd leave you a scrap of dignity," I say, pressing my forearm across his throat, "just for a little while, before I put you in your place."

"You want me on my knees, Johnny," he wheezes, bucking his hips against me, "all you gotta do is say the word."

"I know." I smile down at him, and step back, taking my arm away. He slips down into position without hesitating, as if my grip was the only thing keeping him up. I brace myself against the wall with one hand, and put the other on top of his head, twisting and yanking his hair as he starts to unbutton my trousers. It reminds me of all those quick little back-alley sessions I used to do as a teenager with nowhere else to go. Leaning over some kneeling boy, trying to block the view of any gawping copper on patrol, trying my hardest to look like I was just some stumbling drunk propping himself up against the wall so he didn't fall over. But then the boy's mouth would open and slide down around my cock, and all my thoughts of being discreet and careful would go out the window, and I'd be yanking his hair and grinding his face into my lap, making so much noise it's a wonder I didn't end every night locked up. There's a big difference between what you reckon is sensible at the start of the evening, and what seems like a reasonable risk when you’ve got some cock-hungry boy on his knees, looking up at you like he'd rip your jeans open with his teeth if you said the word.

"Johnny," the kid says, rubbing his face against the shaft of my cock, "let me swallow it this time. I know you love it over my face, but please, Johnny, you ain't let me swallow for ages."

For a fortnight, he means. I want to laugh, but instead I yank his head back and slap my cock against his cheek, and say "Depends how happy you make me. Get to work, and maybe I'll think about it."

"Sure thing, Johnny," he says, grinning up at me, and he gets right down to it with the kind of skill that makes me think he should really be on the books. In a way I'm glad he's not. I'm glad he's all mine, and that's pure selfishness on my part. Deep down I'm happy that I've got this little punk at my beck and call, that he's never busy when I want him. He gets on his knees wherever and whenever I tell him to, for whoever I want, and the only guys that ever get to fuck this hot little mouth are the ones I've personally approved. That's the kind of power that makes you feel like you're king of the world. It's a wonder it hasn't driven me mad.

"Johnny, please," Tommy says, as he pulls back. His fist is working over my shaft, tight and firm, glistening with spit. His other hand is circled around the base, and I can feel his thumb stroking me, rubbing my skin gently, like he can't keep even the smallest part of himself still. "Let me swallow it, Johnny, please…"

He's got me so close he'll end up with a face full of come, if he's not careful. "Stop begging and get on with it," I order, shoving his head down. "That tongue's got one purpose right now, and it isn't whining."

He gives a soft groan, and I can feel the sound humming through me as I start to fuck his throat again. I'm right up against the edge, hanging on by my fingernails. That's the problem with having your own boy, your own personal dedicated little punk: he's had so much practice sucking my cock, there's no flaws left in his technique at all. He can get me right up to boiling point in the time it'd take a new starter to find his rhythm.

"Tommy, you little—" I hiss, as I start to come. My hand twists in his hair, and I yank his head back, and give it to him all over that perfect tongue. He keeps his mouth open like a good boy, and when I push inside again to let the last few sprays of come spatter against the back of his throat, he makes a happy, choked little noise and looks up at me like he's died and gone to heaven. He even stays in position when I'm done, with his mouth open and his tongue stretched out, so I can see every drop glistening on that wet red skin.

"Alright, you can swallow," I say, patting him on the cheek. The look in his eyes when he does as he's told is sheer bliss, and I feel like he's gotten one over on me, but somehow I don't really mind.

"Thanks, Johnny," he says, grinning up at me, with his hand on his belt. "What about me, can I…?"

"Bit late for that," I say, tutting. "Get ready for bed, and maybe I'll let you take care of yourself in the morning."

He looks up at me, and just for a moment I think he's going to start whinging. I can almost hear him: _Aw, it's not fair Johnny, why've I got to wait, why can't I do what I want, why've you got to be so mean?_ The way he always does, when he's in a rebellious mood. But then he smiles, and rests his forehead against my thigh for a second, and says "Okay," so happily that you'd think he got what he wanted after all.

The kid's pretty quiet as we get undressed, and the most I hear out of him is that stupid pop song he's always whistling, which he launches into as soon as he's in the shower. Even when he's standing by the bed, towelling himself off, watching me watching him, he doesn't say anything. He just smiles at me, and lingers a little bit longer than strictly necessary over drying his back and legs. Finally, just when I'm starting to wonder if he's got a sore throat, he lays down next to me, and puts his head on my chest, and says "So, who was that guy, Johnny? The one that came to see you tonight."

I'd wondered how long it'd take him to ask that question. You'd think all that wondering would've given me enough time to figure out a sensible answer, but I still find myself on the back-foot. "Someone I knew a long time ago," I say, sliding my arm around his waist. "When I was your age. It didn't last very long, but it was a big deal for me at the time."

"Oh," he says, nodding. He's quiet again for a few seconds, and then he says "Were you in love with him?"

"I was fixated on him. I don't think it was love." I pause, and kiss the top of the kid's head. "Not the way I'd use the word now, anyway."

He wriggles closer to me, and puts his hand on my stomach, stroking the little trail of hair that runs down the middle. "Are you gonna pick up where you left off?"

"I want to spend some time with him, yeah. But it won't be picking up where we left off, not really. We're different people now, we couldn't go back to how it was. And to be honest, I wouldn't want to. I was a reckless idiot back then."

"I wish I'd known you when you were younger," he says, with a little chuckle. "Twenty-four-year-old Johnny sounds kind of cute."

"Yeah, well, nineteen-year-old Tommy would probably have driven me mad, so maybe it's for the best that you didn't, eh?"

The kid stays silent for a minute, and then, much quieter, he says "I still wish I'd known you back then, Johnny. If I'd met you sooner, maybe—maybe I wouldn’t have—"

"Hey," I interrupt him, "hey, now, come on, kid, what did we say about all that?"

"It's all in the past," he says, just like I told him. "It's over and done with. I know, Johnny, but sometimes…"

"I know." I pull him a bit closer, and rub my palm over the bare skin of his back. "You just keep trying, alright?"

"Sure thing, Johnny," he says, yawning. There's a little bit of silence, and then I hear him snoring gently, and I feel his breath against my skin, shallow, uneven, and warm. He amazes me, this kid. He can go from euphoric to worried to fast asleep in ten seconds flat. I used to think it was lack of brains. Now I think it's anything but. It's all the things he feels. They're so potent they wear him out. He's been mine for three years now, and I still don't think I properly understand the depth of what Tommy feels, what he goes through. Getting closer to him was a revelation for me. It was the first time I ever had the thought: _All those people who look like they're swimming along easily, what if they're an inch away from drowning, just like you are? And the only difference is, they're better actors_. These days, we're both flailing around in the water together, clinging to each other on nights like this, keeping each other afloat.


	2. Chapter 2

"Don't worry," I say, throwing Camille a smirk over my shoulder as I unlock the door. "Tommy's out with one of his friends from the gym, so you won't have to put up with him yammering in your ear all night."

"Ah, so I've got you all to myself?" he says, following me into the lounge. "I'm glad—but I do want to meet Tommy properly, you know, eventually."

"I'm saving that," I laugh. "An evening with Tommy is what you get once I'm sure you're not going to run screaming the minute he starts rabbiting on about comics and records and what-have-you."

Camille smiles at me, and stands in the middle of the lounge, looking around at the place. All the décor in here is cobbled together from other people: the big framed prints on the walls are from Miller, the mirror over the fireplace is from the boss, and the little gold and silver trophies on the shelves are Tommy's. I picked the sofa and chairs out myself, but everything else I've had given to me, so the whole room is a patchwork of other people's tastes.

"This is a very nice place," he says, finally.

"Much nicer than where I lived last time you were in town, eh?" I laugh, and then suddenly my mind is flooded with memories of the night Camille broke into my old flat, all those years ago. I can picture him sitting there in the twilight. I remember the feeling of him pressing up against me, the smell of his perfume, the sound of scorn in his voice as he taunted me. I remember all of that, and when I turn around to face him, he looks exactly how I feel: wistful, and pained, and excited, all at once.

"Yes, much nicer," he echoes me, nodding.

"Anyway," I say, waving my hand toward the sofa, "sit down, make yourself at home. I'll get us some drinks."

"Thank you." He sits down at the far end of the sofa, and smiles at me. It seems so unreal, having him here, after all this time. It's been years since I put the memory of him away, and these days I barely think of him at all. Maybe once a month, my mind might drift onto the idea of him, and I might smile or wince to myself, before I push the thought aside. And now here he is, sitting on my sofa, half a familiar face and half a complete stranger.

"You're not used to fetching your own drinks these days, are you, Johnny?" he says, as I rifle through the bottles in the drinks cabinet.

"Guilty as charged," I laugh, and crouch down to get a better look. "Tommy takes care of this stuff for me. He says there's a method to how he's got everything arranged, but if there's any logic to it, I'm damned if I can see it." Finally I find the whiskey I'm after, and I pick up a couple of shot glasses to go with it. "Is this stuff still alright?" I say, holding the bottle up.

"Perfect," he says, and as I sit down next to him, he looks at me silently for a moment, smiling slightly, as if he knows something I don't. "You love Tommy very much, don't you?" he says, at last. "More than you thought you were capable of."

I grin at him, and pass him his drink. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes," he says, nodding. "It's very clear when the two of you are together, but it's unmistakeable when you're on your own. You seem as if you're missing a part of yourself."

"Have you ever felt like that?" The question comes out before I can stop myself asking. It's the kind of question I should save until I've got a few shots in my stomach to blame it on, but somehow when I talk to Camille, I can't hold back.

"No," he says, still smiling. He takes a sip of his drink, and then he says "I don't think I've ever loved anyone, really. I don't know if I can."

I shrug, and lean back in my seat. "If it happens, it happens. You can't force this stuff. Well, that's what I reckon, anyway."

"Yes, I think you're right."

"Did you—" I start to say, and then I pause, trying to think of a better way to phrase it. "Did any of it mean anything to you? All the things we did, back then?"

"It was…" He trails off, and sips a bit more of his whiskey. "It was rock bottom for me, Johnny. I'm sorry, I know it's not a very flattering thing to hear, but it's true. What I did with you— _to_ you—that was the last in a very long line of bad decisions. It could have been anyone, really."

I don’t know what to say to that, so I keep quiet. Deep down I was hoping that Camille had carried a torch for me, that I'd been something special, but I guess I was fooling myself all along.

"But," he carries on, "I think if it hadn't been you, perhaps Mr Turner would have judged the situation differently. I think your involvement forced his hand."

"What d'you mean, forced his hand?"

"Well, if it had been someone else, someone he didn't value, perhaps he would have let me carry on the game I was playing. Perhaps he would have had you tidied away, the way he did with the others. Instead he had to put a stop to it, quickly, and he had to do it in a way that kept both of us safe."

"Yeah, maybe," I say, but I'm not really convinced.

"You don't believe me, do you, Johnny?"

"Not really."

"Perhaps," he says, with a little smile, "you should ask Mr Turner, and see what _he_ says."

"I'll say one thing for you, Camille," I laugh, shaking my head. "You haven't lost your sense of humour."

He laughs too, and then there's a little silent moment where he just watches me, smiling a bit, keeping his eyes on mine. It's such a strange feeling, to be staring right into his eyes and not feel like I'm waiting for a firecracker to go off.

"Johnny," he says, finally, "were there many other boys, after I left? Boys like me, I mean."

"Boys I was really stuck on?"

"Boys who hurt you."

I take a long, slow sip of my drink before I answer. "There was one, yeah, about a year after you left."

"Long before Tommy's time, then?"

"Oh yeah," I laugh. "If Tommy had been around back then, he'd have thrown that boy out on his ear before I had a chance to get attached."

He smiles, and says "What was he like, this other boy?"

"Reckless," I say, watching the light gleaming on the glass as I turn it around in my hand. "Insatiable, and greedy, and with enough of a death-wish he could've gotten both of us killed if I hadn't sent him packing."

Camille doesn't say anything. He just nods, and stares at his drink for a few seconds. Finally he looks up again, with as serious an expression as I've ever seen on his face, and says "That was the last time you got involved with anyone like him?"

"Yeah." I nod, and give him a smile. "I've been trouble-free for a good three or four years now."

"I'm glad," he says, and he finishes his drink off in one. "I was worried that perhaps you'd gotten into the habit of chasing boys like me—like I used to be—boys who are set on destruction. Some men do, you know," he says, more quietly. "For the thrill of it, or for the feeling of being the stable one, for the superiority."

He looks at me with a little twinge of pain in his eyes, as if he's knocked an old bruise that hasn't quite faded, and as he looks at me I feel a rush of that superiority, bundled up with the urge to comfort him.

"Well, that's not what I'm after," I say, putting my glass down on the table.

"What _are_ you after?"

_Be honest with him,_ I tell myself. _He said to be honest, so you've got to tell it like it is_. "What I want," I say, when I've geared myself up enough to get the words out, "is to spend some time with you, getting to know you as you are _now_ , not how I've been thinking of you all these years. What I want is a fresh start."

"Shall I tell you what I want?" he says, with a little smile.

I nod and say "Yeah."

"I want to start building relationships here that have a chance of lasting," he says, and as he leans over to put his empty glass next to mine, I can smell his perfume very faintly, like the breeze carrying the scent of flowers to you, just for a moment, before the wind changes. "I'll be thirty this year, Johnny. I want to make connections that will still be going strong when I'm nearing forty."

_That's a tall order,_ I want to say. Instead I smile, and say "I'm going to be thirty soon myself, in September. Just think, only a few months and I'll officially be a responsible adult."

"Oh," he laughs, "does that mean we're both just children til we turn thirty?"

"Well, I'll bet the boss thinks we're just kids." I laugh too, because with Camille smiling and laughing right next to me, I can't do anything else but follow suit. "When you're his age, with as much power as he's got, I bet _everyone_ looks like a bunch of stupid kids."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Camille says, putting his hand on my thigh. I can feel his thumb rubbing along the curve of the muscle, lightly and slowly, and I want to look down at it, but I can't take my eyes off his face as he talks. "I think Mr Turner sees you as much more than just a kid. There's a reason you're where you are today, Johnny—he didn't give you Cloud Nine on a whim."

"You're right," I say, and I turn towards him, so that I can take in the full view of him. "And besides, if the boss thought I was just a stupid kid, he wouldn't let me anywhere near someone as precious to him as you, would he?"

Camille looks at me, smiling softly, and the sight of him bowls me over. He seems so much warmer, so much more alive than all the daydreams I've had of him over the last few years put together. The dark brown of his eyes, the amber of his skin, the burgundy velvet of his suit, the black silk shirt and the matching chiffon scarf knotted loosely around his throat, around the throat I can remember kissing, and biting, and squeezing in my hand so tightly he could barely breathe—all of it goes to my head as if I've downed the whole bottle of whiskey. _Be honest_ , I tell myself. _You've got to be honest_. "Camille," I say, bringing my hand up to his cheek, "you're beautiful."

"You still think so, even now?" he says, quietly.

"Especially now," I say, stroking the warm curve of his cheekbone with my thumb. "More than ever."

He leans forward and kisses me, very lightly at first, just brushing his lips against mine. I put my arms around his waist, and he winds his arms around my neck, and suddenly the kiss isn't gentle anymore. It's ferocious, and ravenous, and all-consuming. Underneath the bite of the whiskey, he tastes like honey. His tongue is hot and quick, and his lips are impossibly soft. I move my hand up over his back, over his shoulder, over his neck, up to his hair. When I grasp a handful of it, he leans back and says "Don't be gentle with me, Johnny."

"You still like it rough?"

"Rougher than ever," he says, smiling up at me hungrily. "Don't hold back."

I yank his head back hard, and move my lips down to his throat, to the spot just above the edge of the chiffon. I can taste the bitterness of his perfume. I can feel his pulse under my lips, beating fast and light like a hummingbird's wings. His hands move down to my lapels, and I let him pull my jacket off, not caring where it falls. My tie goes next, and then my shirt, and I strip him to the waist just as quickly. It's only when we're both shirtless that I stand up and pull him to his feet, so I can get a good look at him. That's when I notice the bruises. Familiar greyish-purple ovals, dappling his upper arms and shoulders. He'll have the same marks on his ankles too, and much darker ones on his hips, just like I've got.

"Oh, those," he giggles, when he spots me staring. "I saw Mr Turner last night."

I grin at him, and glance down at my own arms. "Mine are from Friday."

"It's as if he's had us both monogrammed," Camille says, smirking.

I laugh, and grab hold of his arms, putting my fingers where the boss's hands have marked him, squeezing him firmly enough to make those bruises sting. "Branded, more like."

"You know, Johnny," he says, with a little purr of pleasure. "You're the only man I've known who isn't even slightly jealous of Mr Turner."

I want to say: _Jealous?_ _He's the air we breathe and the water we swim in. He's the world that makes all of this possible. You might as well be jealous of the sun for shining._ Instead I bring my hands up to Camille's shoulders, and shove him roughly down onto his knees. "The way I see it," I say, grabbing hold of his hair again, "I should be grateful to the boss for letting me even lay a finger on you."

He smiles up at me, and says "I was just thinking the same thing, about you."

I've daydreamed about this so many times. The one thing I never got to have, back then. I know how his hand feels, curled around my cock. I know how his ass feels, gripping my fingers, and relaxing around me as I fuck him. But his mouth, that's the one thing I never got the chance to feel, and now, as he kneels there at my feet, with those rosy lips slightly parted and those dark eyes hazy with desire, that's the thing I want most in the world. My hand works quickly over the buttons of my fly, and when I hold my cock to his lips, Camille keeps his eyes on mine and flicks his tongue out to taste me, and all of the nerves in my body seem to catch on fire all at once, crying out: _At last, at last, don't waste a second!_

"You're not going to tease me tonight," I say, as I push his head down. My voice sounds rough and hard, and the moan he gives as my cock slides into his mouth is as smooth as the touch of his lips. I keep my hands twisted in his hair, one on the top of his head and one at the nape of his neck, using it like a silky black set of reins, and I force his mouth down along the length of my cock until I can feel his throat working around me, tensing and relaxing around the shaft. There's a quiet metallic noise, the sound of Camille unbuckling his belt, and then he moans again, much louder this time. I can't see his hands, but I can see his arms moving as he strokes himself, and I can feel the change in the rhythm of his lips and tongue.

"You like it that much, do you?" I give him a deep, hard thrust, and hold him there. "I should make you beg."

When I let him up for air, he pulls back and gives me a hungry, wet-lipped smile. "You could, if you wanted to."

I let go of his hair, and sit down on the sofa. "Go on, then," I say, stroking my fist over my cock as he watches. "Let's hear it."

"Please," he says, quietly, "let me have what I want, Johnny."

Those lips, those soft lips that a hundred guys have dreamt about, are red and sore because of me. That tongue, the tongue that makes men mad for him, is pleading for me. "Tell me what you want," I order, and my eyes are on his mouth as he answers.

"Let me suck your cock again," he says, leaning forward and bracing his hands against my thighs. "Let me taste it, just a little more." His lips are dark and glossy, and I can see a flash of that red tongue as he talks. "Please, Johnny, I want you to fuck me, but first I want it in my mouth again." He breathes the words out, leaning over me a bit further, so that the scent of his perfume washes over me. "Let me, Johnny, let me suck it again, please…"

My hand reaches out and grabs his hair, almost on its own. The other hand stays circled around the base of my shaft, and the two of them draw together, pushing Camille down onto my cock again, feeding it into his mouth again, letting him lick and suck and swallow me to his heart's content, and as I push him down, I think to myself: _Does he always get what he wants? Does anyone ever say no to him?_ And the answer to that question is clear and obvious: _Yeah, there's one man, and maybe only one, who can say no to Camille—and he can say no to anything, everything, whatever he feels like._ Funny how even when it's the two of us, the boss is right here, a silent third party. Even when it's me and Tommy, he's still there, in my mind. Even when I'm on my own, when I've managed to get an hour to myself and I'm soaking up the peace and quiet, I can hear his voice in my head, I can see his eyes if I close my own, I can feel his hands on me if I lay back and let my mind drift. I wonder if Camille feels the same way.

"Johnny," he says, pulling back a little, "please, fuck me, I can't wait any longer."

"Alright," I laugh, "since you asked nicely."

I stand up and shove him into position on all fours. I don't bother taking his trousers off, I just yank them down around his knees, and when I lean over to get the lube out of the cabinet next to us, he pushes back against me, grinding that warm, round, perfect little ass into my lap.

"Johnny…" he says softly. "Give it to me, I need it so much…"

"I know exactly what you need," I say, with another rough laugh, and it sounds more like Joe than me. I lube him up slowly, taking my time over it, tracing light little circles around the rim of his ass, letting my touch get firmer with every pass. After a while I press a fingertip inside him, and he breathes in hard, and pushes back against my hand, but I won't let him control the pace. I move my fingers away, and I put my dry hand on the small of his back, and say "You'll take it as quick or as slow as I feel like giving it to you." This time it doesn't sound like one of Joe's taunts, and it doesn't sound like the boss, either. I can't figure out who it does sound like, but whoever it is, it does the trick.

"Please," he moans, spreading his thighs a bit wider. "Please, Johnny, I can't stand it…"

It's the sound of his voice that makes me give in. The fire in it. The depth and strength of it. It reminds me of the way Tommy begs. "Hold still," I say, as if Camille needs any instruction, and I push my finger all the way into him. He takes it easily, just like he did in the old days, and when I give him a second finger he groans softly and tilts his hips back, squirming a little bit, shifting and wriggling like he can't keep still. I laugh again, and say "You like that, do you?"

"I love it," he says, looking back over his shoulder at me. "You know I love it."

"Yeah, and I know what you love even more."

I keep my fingers in him, and slick a palmful of lube over my cock with the other hand. I don't want to stop touching him even for a second. When I pull my fingers out, he makes a soft little noise in his throat that sounds like half frustration and half excitement, and that noise melts into a moan as I slide my cock into his ass. He feels better than I remember. Hotter, softer, smoother, as if time and age have worked some kind of impossible magic on him, and improved on a boy who was perfect to start with.

"Harder," he says, as I start to move. "Faster, Johnny, don't hold back."

I nod and say "You can take it much rougher than this, can't you?" And in my mind, I'm picturing the merciless fucking he must have gotten from the boss last night, while he was picking up those bruises.

"Sometimes I feel like—" he starts to say, and cuts himself off with a moan. "Like I could never get enough, like I could take anything, anything at all."

"Well, if you've got an upper limit," I say, grabbing hold of his hips, putting my fingers exactly where the boss's were last night, "you're in the right place to find it."

He puts his head down against his forearms, bracing himself against floor, as I start to really give it to him. After a few strokes, I seem to hit on just the right rhythm for him, and he groans "Like that, don't stop, just like that…" Maybe in the old days I would have held back, maybe I would have taunted him, and made him beg his throat hoarse. Tonight I can't do anything but give him what he wants. My hands are tight on his hips, and I slam into him as hard and deep as I can get, and even then he wants more. "Johnny," he moans, "fuck me, please, harder, make it hurt…" And I throw every bit of strength I've got into it, hammering into his ass so hard and fast he should be howling in pain, but he keeps on moaning, pleading, breathing hard and saying my name, and it's as if he's dragging the pleasure out of me with every word that falls from those beautiful lips. "Hurt me," he begs, "please, Johnny, hurt me—" And he cries out suddenly, in satisfaction and surprise and outrage, and I can feel him tightening and convulsing around me as he comes, I can feel his ass gripping me, squeezing my cock, draining me as greedily as any hot, wet mouth ever did, and that's it, I'm done for, there's no going back. The only sound I make as I come is his name.


	3. Chapter 3

We really need to get some better furniture in here. That's what I'm thinking, as I sit down next to the boss. He picked a table in the middle of the room, and it's perfectly positioned to get a good view of the stage, but that's the best I can say about it. We should get some VIP tables sorted out, I reckon. I can't bring the boss in here and expect him to sit at a normal table, as if he's any old lecher that wandered in off the street.

"How are the takings?" the boss says, fixing me with a long, cold glance.

"Up ten percent since Camille started work." My voice sounds so steady and even, it's like it belongs to someone else entirely. "We're almost back to where we were when we had Patrick's boys over here. Give it a few months, and I reckon we'll be doing even better than that."

"Good," he says, and there's just the slightest trace of a smile at the corners of his mouth, like the sparkle of frost thawing in the sunlight.

There's so much I want to ask the boss. Questions upon questions, all rattling around in my head. _Are you glad Camille's back?_ _Did you miss him? Were you worried about him? Did you worry about me, when I was up north? Were you worried when I came back? And if I'd come back completely broken, would you have sent me abroad to get better, like you did with him?_ But I can't say any of it. Instead I smile at the old man, and say "D'you want a refill, sir?"

He nods and says "Yes, the same again."

I glance over my shoulder, to where Tommy's waiting. He's in his best suit tonight, with his hair freshly-cut and combed into a neat little quiff. He looks so handsome and polished I can barely believe he's mine. "Tommy!" I call out, beckoning him. "Fetch some more drinks."

"Sure thing, Johnny," he says, and when he leans over to pick up the empties, he flashes me a quick smile that says: _You're doing great, just keep going_. Well, that's easy for him to say. He's not the one sitting here trying to convince the old man that I'm not running the place into the ground.

"I was thinking, boss—" I start to say, but he cuts me off.

"Later, Johnny." He nods towards the stage, and when I follow his eyes, I realise that Camille's already up there, standing in front of the microphone. I didn't even hear him make his entrance. I guess I was too wrapped up in myself to notice.

Camille doesn't bother greeting the audience, or introducing himself. He just launches straight into the first song, and it's one of those where the accompaniment only comes in after the first line. He's completely alone for the first few seconds. He just forges ahead, and flings himself out there without a net. He doesn't need one. His voice is so powerful, and so perfectly-controlled, that he could have dispensed with the pianist altogether. His range is a bit lower now than it used to be, and it suits him down to the ground. Five years ago his voice was delicate and soft. Now it's rich, and strong, and so smooth it feels like velvet all around me. The first time I ever saw him sing, he was wearing a suit the colour of blood. Tonight he's wearing midnight blue, and his throat is glittering with diamonds. He couldn't be more different. It's like the young Camille was just a butterfly's cocoon, and it had to crack before he could become the grown man he is now.

As he sings, I glance around the room, trying to get a sense of how the audience feels about his act. Almost everyone's watching him. The boss is looking at Camille with a kind of hard-edged approval in his eyes, like a general watching his army annihilate the enemy. Most of the clients are watching, except for the handful who don't go for the glitzy type, and those guys look like they're enjoying the music even if the visuals don't push their buttons. The renters who aren't busy with clients are watching him too, some of them with idly happy expressions, some of them with the same kind of raw lust that you'd see in any punter's eyes. Even David looks entertained by the show, and normally he can't wait to tell me how much better everything was when he worked for Patrick. The only one who isn't smiling as he listens is Kitty, and the less said about that, the better.

In the gap between the second and third songs, Tommy comes over and silently sits down next to me. He's always weirdly quiet when he's around the boss. It's like the old man somehow found the volume dial I've been looking for all this time. The kid doesn't say a word. He just moves his chair close to mine, and puts his hand on my thigh. It's not a demand for attention, but he gets it anyway. Just a touch from that hand, and I'm thinking about the first time me and Tommy were alone in this place, the first time I really felt like the club was mine.

We sat at a table together that night too, drinking and talking, after all the other staff had gone. I even let the doormen go home too, and locked the doors behind them. Just me and Tommy, and an empty club. The lights were still on, shining hot-pink and sky-blue. You could still smell the perfume and smoke and lust in the air. He poured me a fresh drink, and grinned at me, and said: _All this is yours now, ain't it, Johnny?_ And I shook my head and told him it belonged to the boss. He laughed. _Yeah, and so do you, but the way I see it, you're the king of this castle_. I asked him what that made him, and he said: _One of those—what d'you call them—squires._ _Here to help you out and carry your stuff and look flash walking behind you when you're paying someone a royal visit_. I put my hand on the back of his neck, and said: _Is that all?_ He shook his head. _Nowhere near,_ he said, and moved down from his chair, onto his knees, grinning up at me. _Let me show you_.

"Thank you," Camille says, and that's all the audience gets for a goodbye. They should think themselves lucky. It's more than I got.

As soon as he's off the stage, he makes a beeline for our table, and sits down next to the boss. I'm at the old man's left hand, and Camille is at his right. "Thank you for coming to watch me, Mr Turner," he says, all soft and warm and a little bit gushing. "It means a lot to me that you'd take time out of your evening just for this."

"You were very good," the old man says. "It's always a pleasure to listen to you."

Camille smiles, and says "Thank you, sir." He seems a bit bashful, but so much more comfortable than before, so much more at home with his own talent. Now it seems like praise feels completely natural to him, like the compliments will never stop coming, and even if they did, he'd be okay. I wish I had half that confidence.

"You must be parched," I say, watching the soft pink curve of his lips. "Tommy, go and get Camille some water."

"Sure thing, Johnny." The kid puts his hand on my shoulder, just for a moment, and then disappears off to the bar.

"This place is so lovely," Camille says, reaching across to put his hand on mine. "You must feel so proud, to look around at all of this and know that it's your handiwork."

"Not just mine," I say, and I glance at the old man. There's a faint smile on his lips, just the slightest touch of approval, but it's enough to make my pulse race and my face flush white-hot. "Cloud Nine wouldn't even exist if it wasn't for the boss," I carry on, "and besides, it's the rest of the staff that do the majority of the work."

Camille laughs softly, and squeezes my hand. "You're still very reluctant to accept a compliment, aren't you?"

"Depends whether it's about business," I laugh, "or pleasure."

"Here you go," Tommy says quietly, appearing from nowhere at my side. He leans across to put a glass of water in front of Camille, and as he brushes against my arm, I catch the scent of his cologne. He's only been wearing the stuff for a few months now, but every time I smell it, I feel like I've been double-kicked: there's the desire for him, which was always there, and now there's the pride I feel when I think about how much older he is now, how much less of a boy and more of a man he's become over the last three years.

"Thank you," Camille says, giving the kid a full-beam smile as he raises the glass to his lips. It's just a matter of time, I reckon. The only question is, when Tommy gets his hands on Camille, am I going to be there to supervise? The funny thing is, I wouldn't really mind if they got together on their own. I know Tommy would do me proud, even if he was flying solo.

"Johnny," the boss says, standing up. "Come through to the office."

"Yes, sir." I get to my feet, and I put my hand on Tommy's shoulder, and lean over close to his ear, to say "Look after Camille, get him whatever he wants."

The kid nods, and his face is deadly serious as he looks up at me. "Sure thing, Johnny," he says gravely, as if I've left him with the crown jewels.

The boss goes on ahead, and I follow him across the floor, up the little steps to the office. The way he opens the door, the way he strides right in and sits down behind the desk, you can tell just in those few seconds how thorough and complete his ownership is. The club, the boys, me. Everything, all his, completely and utterly. I wonder how the boys see him, when they catch a glimpse of the boss passing through. I look at him, trying to see him through their eyes. Short white hair, more severely-cut now there's less of it. A handsome face, lined and pale, like it was carved out of marble. Grey eyes, hawk's eyes, sharp and cold. The suit, the tailoring, all of that's just window-dressing. The appeal is in the way he carries himself, the way he leans back in that leather chair and doesn't say a word, but his eyes are commanding me loud and clear: _Lock that door and get on your knees, boy_.

What else can I do? I kneel in front of him, and look up at him, and give him my best smirk. _Come on, old man_ , that smirk says, _what have you got?_

He smiles very slightly, and just watches me. Seconds go by like that, with him staring down at me, looking right through me. I keep smirking up at him, begging him with my eyes: _Do it, make me pay, make me sorry, make me flinch and yelp._ He keeps me waiting, and when his hand finally grabs hold of my tie, when he finally yanks me forward sharply, when his other hand comes down hard across my face, forehand and backhand, heavy and fast, it knocks a gasp out of me. Coming up on seven years of that hand giving me what for, and the simplest touch still makes my pulse race and my cock harden. He looks down at me, not smiling, and holds me in place by the tie. Those grey eyes are cold and mocking. _Are you ready to give in?_ And my lips are silent, but they're answering all the same: _Not by a long stretch_.

He hits me again, over and over, first the palm and then the hard bone of the back of his hand, chipping away at my bravado, grinding down my defiance. His touch plants the seed of that bravado in me, and just as easily crushes it. He gives me that strength, and takes it away. Would I even be here, if it wasn't for him? _Please_ , my eyes are begging, _put me in my place, show me where I belong, make me forget everything except being yours_. My hands slip down to my lap, and I press my palm against the ridge of my cock, stroking and rubbing at myself slowly as he beats me, doling out pleasure in the same vicious rhythm. _Please, use me, break me, let me give you everything_.

Finally he stops, and I fall forward into his lap like I'm dying of thirst. My fingers unbutton his trousers quickly, my hands circle his cock, my lips open around the head of it, and I slide down, taking it as quick and deep as I can. I need to feel him in my throat, I need to taste him on my tongue. I can't waste a second. His hands rest on my head, gripping my hair, guiding me up and down, but he doesn't need to push at all. I can't help throwing myself into it. I'd be going full-speed even if those hands were laying still. Anything. I'll do anything to feel his cock twitching and swelling in my mouth, anything to hear his breathing quicken, anything to feel his fist tightening in my hair. My fingers slide along the length of his shaft, slicking it with the spit that's running down my lips and onto his skin, stroking every inch I can't reach with my mouth. I'd work my hands raw for his pleasure. Anything at all.

"Johnny," he says, at last, icy and rough, as he yanks my head up. His hand twists in my hair, making me cry out, and my open mouth feels the first spray of it. His come spatters against my lips, my tongue, my cheeks, and trickles down along my chin and throat. I hold still, and I don't swallow, I resist with every bit of strength I've got. I just kneel there and keep my eyes on his, exactly as he wants me, until he's done.

"Tidy yourself up," he says, afterwards, once he's dried and buttoned up again. I'm still kneeling in front of the chair, leaning my weight against it, trying to catch my breath. He looks at me as he opens the door, and says "And be quick about it, you've got a club to run."

"Yes, sir," I say, but the door is already closing behind him.

I dry my face off with my handkerchief, comb my hair back into place, and head out of the office. Camille and Tommy are waiting for me right outside, leaning against the wall, chatting like they're old friends.

"Have you two been eavesdropping?" I say, throwing them a sore-lipped smirk. "Or did you miss me so much you couldn't bring yourself to wait down there?"

"A little of both," Camille says, coming up close. He puts his arms around my neck, and gives me a long, slow kiss, with a faint little moan buried underneath it. He must be able to smell the old man's come on my skin. That scent works like catnip on me, so of course it's going to get him overheated.

"Hey, I'm getting jealous over here," Tommy says, and when I pull away from Camille, the kid's standing there with his arms crossed, and the least-convincing attempt at a pout you ever saw on his face.

"Jealous of me," Camille says, with a little giggle, "or jealous of Johnny?"

The kid grins, and shrugs, and says "Bit of both."

There's a swell of pride in my chest and a rush of heat in my veins, as I watch them flirting. Like I said, it's only a matter of time.


	4. Chapter 4

"Ah, this is your new fancy-man, is it?" The old guy standing in the doorway looks at me, and raises his eyebrow slightly.

"Yes, this is Johnny," Camille says, giving the old guy a very soft smile. "Johnny, this is Mr Blanchard. He taught me _everything_ I know."

Now, there's a few smart lines I could say in response to that, but Mr Blanchard looks like he doesn't stand for any backchat, so I just smile and say hello. He's white-haired, just like the boss, but shorter and thinner, and his face is gaunt and very deeply lined. I'd put him at about sixty-five, and at a guess I'd say he's been giving frosty glares like this one to guys like me for a good three or four decades.

" _You_ ," Blanchard says archly, pointing at me with one long, glossy-nailed finger. "If you keep Camille up late at night, and wear his voice out with all of this sweet-talking and sighing and moaning—and don't look so appalled, young man, I am well aware of what it is boys like you spend your free time doing—if you spoil his voice with all of that, you will only have yourself to blame when this decline shows in your profits. Do not come crying to me when you have ruined him."

"Well," I stutter, "it's not just down to me, you know—and anyway, you could say the same thing to Mr Turner, couldn't you?"

"Hmph," the old guy scoffs, and shrugs. "Perhaps I could, but you are not Mr Turner."

"Mm, you're quite right, Mr Blanchard, he certainly isn't…" Camille says, with a little giggle, and slips his arm through mine. "But regardless, I'll try not exhaust myself _too_ much tonight. I'll be a _very_ good boy, I promise."

"You," Blanchard says, folding his arms, "do not have a single good bone in your body."

"You know me so well," Camille laughs, and waves goodbye with his free hand.

Once we're in the car together, I glance at him, and say "You're having lessons?"

"Well, yes," he says, as if it's a silly question. "In the old days I used to go to Mr Blanchard twice a week, and I was worried he might have retired while I was away, but thankfully Mr Turner persuaded him not to. So I should be able to take lessons from him for at least a few more years—but what I'll do when Mr Blanchard finally does retire, I've no idea."

I smile, and shrug. "Maybe you'll be the one giving lessons, by that point."

"Oh, nonsense…" Camille says, but he smiles and blushes, and looks out of the window. We're on the main road now, heading into town, away from the big expensive houses, back towards the factories and shops, the pubs and nightclubs, the bread and butter that keeps us both going. After a few minutes, Camille turns to me and says "You know, I still think it's terrible of you not to let me go home and get changed, before we go out."

"You look perfect as you are." I glance at him, just for a second, before I put my eyes back on the road where they belong. One second's all you need. For him, it's a casual outfit. For anyone else, it'd be going all-out. He's dressed all in red and black, with tight velvet trousers and a loose chenille shirt. There's another one of those chiffon scarves around his throat, a red one with black trimming, and when he moves just right, the fabric sways aside so you can see a glimpse of his collarbone. "And besides," I say, clearing my throat, "it's only Tommy we're meeting up with. He wouldn't care if you showed up wearing a burlap sack."

Camille laughs, and puts his hand on my thigh. Five years ago I wouldn't have been able to think straight, let alone drive, with that hand touching me. Now it feels gentle, and warm, and right. It's different to the way Tommy touches me, there's none of the strength and reassurance I get from him, but it's worthwhile in its own way. The way I see it, Tommy's the main course, and Camille is the dessert. You wouldn't want to live off him, he wouldn't keep you going for an hour, let alone a day, but he makes your life better, richer, more colourful. The thought makes me chuckle, and Camille gives my thigh a squeeze.

"What are you laughing at?" he says, smiling at me.

"Not much, really." I put my hand on top of his for a moment, and stroke it. "I was just thinking about how nervous Tommy must be right now. I don't know who he's most worked-up about impressing, you or me."

"Well," Camille says, as we pull up in front of Cloud Nine, "I think he does an admirable job either way."

He's only been back in town a couple of weeks, but the staff at the club already seem completely at home with Camille. The boys nod and smile at him as we pass by, and a few of them call out cheerful hellos, like he's their long-lost buddy. But then there's Kitty. He's sitting in one of the booths, talking to a middle-weight client, and as soon as he spots Camille his expression darkens. It's only a few seconds of looking daggers, but it's long enough for the client to notice. The guy leans over and puts his hand on Kitty's arm. I know exactly what he'll be saying, too: _Are you alright, sweetheart? You look like you've seen a ghost._ I know this guy. He's the protective type, luckily for Kitty, and that means a bit of drama gets his blood pumping. But what if it'd been a different client? I sigh and shake my head, and make a mental note to have a word with Kitty tomorrow. He needs snapping back in line, but not tonight. Tonight's for me.

"Look at all this stuff," Tommy says, spreading his arms out and whistling. "The VIPs are gonna love it."

He's right, too. I wasn't convinced when we picked the furniture out, I thought it was all too big and brightly-coloured, but seeing it all properly installed, it's perfect. There are five big plush sofas, with little matching chairs for the boys, all in velvet and leather. The lighting up here is perfect, too. Those pinks and blues from down on the floor have become deep scarlet and purple, and the whole place looks drenched in lust. You could shoot a racy film up here, it looks that good.

"Yeah, it'll do," I say, sitting down on the nearest sofa.

Tommy sits down on one side of me, and Camille sits down on the other, and they smile at each other like a pair of conspirators.

"This is the VIP area, is it?" Camille says, running his palm along the velvet of the seat. "Doesn't that mean Mr Turner should be the first guest to use it?"

They both look at me, unsmiling and serious, and I get a sudden stab of panic, right in the guts. "No, no," I say, shaking my head, "it's not like that—we're _testing_ the VIP tables, not actually using them. It'll be the boss who gets the first shot at properly using all this."

Camille's lips curl into a smirk, and Tommy breaks into laughter, and now I feel like I've been completely outmanoeuvred. "Honestly, Johnny," the kid says, digging me in the ribs with his elbow, "you looked like you were going to drop dead of fright!"

"Yeah, yeah, hilarious…" I try to be serious, but I can't help smiling, and when the kid nestles a bit closer to me, I've put my arm around his shoulders before I know what I'm doing.

"We shouldn't tease him," Camille says, slipping his arm through my free one. "After all, he could have us thrown out, if he wanted…"

They both start laughing again, as if I'm the funniest thing they ever saw.

"Hey Camille," the kid says, once he's caught his breath. "You knew Johnny back before he was a big-shot, didn't you?"

"Oh, is he a big-shot now? I thought he was middle-management, at best." Camille keeps a serious expression for a moment, and then he breaks into a smile again. "But yes, I knew him quite a long time ago."

"What was he like, back then?" The kid leans in front of me and lowers his voice, as if I can't hear him. "Go on, I bet you've got some real embarrassing stories you could tell."

"He was…" Camille trails off, and gives Tommy a soft, warm smile. "Well, he was very bold, but _tremendously_ irresponsible."

"That's Johnny for you," the kid laughs. "When it comes to pretty boys, he ain't got the sense he was born with."

"Hmm, are you sure it's only pretty boys? I've heard he's just as susceptible to handsome young men…"

"Hah!" Tommy grins. " _And_ mean old guys, for that matter. Come to think of it, there's hardly anyone who _doesn't_ put Johnny's head in a spin."

"Hey, now just you wait a minute." I turn around to prod Tommy lightly in the chest. "If you two are going to spend all night discussing my character flaws, then maybe I'll call Miller up and tell him I can make it to that dinner party after all."

"Oh, now, don't sulk," Camille says, patting my arm.

"Yeah, don't get sore, Johnny," the kid laughs.

"Well, if you want me to put up with all of this backchat," I say, leaning back in my seat, "then all I can say is, I'd better be getting something good in return."

 

* * *

 

Tommy runs his hands down over Camille's ribs, over his stomach, across his hips and down to his thighs, all as eagerly as if he'd never touched a boy before. Camille just lies back on the bed and stretches out underneath him, like a cat being petted. The sheets are red silk, beautiful but impractical, and they frame Camille's naked body perfectly. His skin looks warmer and darker, and Tommy looks paler than ever, with all of that gleaming scarlet underneath them. When we were at the club, I joked to myself that you could shoot a racy film in the VIP section, but I've changed my mind—you'd be better off shooting it here, in Camille's apartment. The whole place is rich and glittering and plush. The kind of place Miller would call 'decadent', and turn his nose up a bit, even though it works on him just as well as it works on the rest of us.

A little bit of pressure from Tommy's hands pushes Camille's legs apart, and he draws them up, wide open, so that his knees are pressed to his chest.

"Look at him," Tommy says, like he's talking to himself. "He's like a dream, ain't he, Johnny?"

And before I can answer, Tommy bends his head and presses his lips to the inside of the boy's thigh, and trails kisses slowly down along the curve of it. When did Tommy learn to be this patient? A couple of years ago, he was the type to dive right in, groping and licking and sucking every bit of flesh that came within reach. Now he savours things, now he can pace himself, now he can make it last for hours if he wants to. At some point, while I wasn't looking, I think the kid grew up.

"Don't tease me," Camille says, resting his hands on Tommy's head. "Don't keep me waiting—"

He cuts himself off with a moan, as Tommy's tongue licks a slow, wet trail around the rim of his ass. It blew my mind the first time I watched Tommy work this kind of magic on a boy. It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. That tongue feels like heaven on my cock, so no wonder boys like Camille go crazy for the feeling of it lapping at them. Tommy's hands look broad and rough, holding those smooth thighs apart. He's become a real little bruiser, and that just makes me hotter for him. Especially seeing him with a boy like Camille. Some guys go for similarity, some guys want a twin of themselves, but not me. I want contrast, and difference, and variety. I want soft dark skin and pale solid muscle, I want fierce eyes that melt me and smiling eyes that set me on fire, I want the rough and the smooth and everything in between, all of it, anything I can get.

"Tommy…" Camille moans, tipping his head back, arching that narrow bronze back and biting his lip. It's not a plea or an order. It's pure pleasure, spilling out of his lips. That tongue's working faster now, stroking him, dipping inside him over and over, teasing him the way I would with my fingers, and Tommy's been at it so long that the boy's ass is wet and glistening, dripping with saliva, as hot and slippery as my cock would be, if Tommy was giving me the five-star treatment instead. This kid, he'll never stop surprising me, making me proud. I reckon he could satisfy anyone, anyone at all.

"Stop toying with me," Camille demands, yanking hard on Tommy's hair. "I want you to fuck me, and I want it _now_."

I move forward to stand behind Tommy, and I reach over to grab his arm. "Do as you're told, kid," I order, pulling him back a bit.

Tommy looks up at me, pink-cheeked and wet-lipped and smirking. "Does Camille outrank me, then, Johnny?"

"Of course he does," I laugh, and give his cheek a little slap. "Now get on with it, before I do the job myself."

Tommy lubes the boy up quickly, so much more confidently than I could have done at his age. He knows exactly what he's doing, as well he ought to, with how long he's been fucking boys like Camille. You do something for eight years, you'd better believe you'll be good at it. But then again, I only had a couple of years of a head-start on Tommy, and I must have been twenty-five before I really found my feet with this stuff. Even five years ago, I was pretty green.

"Slowly," Camille groans, clinging onto Tommy's shoulders as he pushes forward. I can't take my eyes off that pale body. The broad, tattooed shoulders, solid and tense. The narrow, taut waist. The thick muscle of his ass and thighs, flexing and hardening as he moves. I want to run my palms over all of it, I want to kneel behind him and show him exactly how much I love that pristine physique of his, but instead I sit back down in my chair and keep sipping my drink, looking but not touching, letting them put on the best show you ever saw, and all for me.

"Is that good?" Tommy says, quietly, like a masseur testing a move.

"So good…" Camille's legs spread a bit wider, and he digs his nails into the kid's shoulders. "Don't stop, keep going, just like that…"

And he does. He can keep going as long as you want him to, these days. I finish my drink slowly, and he's still at it hammer and tongs while I'm pouring myself a refill. That's when I decide it's about time I got hands-on, even if it's at a distance. I hold my drink in one hand, and unfasten my trousers with the other, and the minute my belt-buckle jangles open, the two of them look around at me as if they'd heard a bell tolling.

"Are you enjoying the show?" Camille says, and it sounds like a purr, all warm contentedness and pleasure.

I can't put it into words, how much I'm enjoying it, so I nod and say "You're beautiful, both of you."

"I love it when you watch, Johnny," Tommy says, ragged and a bit breathless. "Nothing better than knowing you're there watching."

How did I end up here, with a little punk like him feeling like that, feeling all those things, doing all those things, just for me? Sometimes I wonder if everything before, before I met Tommy, before I met the boss, if all of that was the coals you have to walk over to reach what you really want. The thought makes me laugh. I've got it made now, sure. But plenty of people walk over those coals, and they've got nothing waiting for them at the other side except more pain. Me and Tommy are the lucky ones. And I guess Camille is, now, too.

"Faster," Camille orders, tugging at the kid's hair again. "Harder, Tommy, don't be gentle…"

"You think this is gentle?" Tommy laughs softly, but he does as he's told, and really starts putting his back into it. I can see the sweat gleaming on his skin, making his tattoos glitter under the lamplight. There's a new one on his arm, a cherry-red heart with my name in the middle, and it's shining right at me, glossy and dark like blood. Sometimes I grab him by that arm, just for the reassurance of putting my hand on the tattoo, feeling the skin of it, the muscle underneath it, checking it's all real.

"Don't stop…" Camille's voice is soft and low, and just a little bit desperate. "Let go, Tommy, I want you to come inside me…"

And like clockwork, the kid glances over his shoulder at me, waiting for permission. His eyes are dark and shining, and his cheeks are flushed pink. That face, those eyes, that smart little mouth. I wake up with all of that next to me every single morning, and I never get sick of it. It's never anything less than beautiful, to me. My eyes drift down from his face to his ass, and for a few seconds I just watch the motion of his hips, swaying steadily back and forth, stirring up as much pleasure in Camille as pride in me.

"Go on," I say, finally. "Give him what he wants, Tommy."

He must have been holding back by the skin of his teeth. As soon as I've given the word, he cranks up his pace again, and starts to pound his cock into Camille's ass so hard you'd think he was trying to break the boy, or himself, or both.

"Harder," Camille moans, "that's right, harder, don't hold back…"

Tommy cries out as he comes, loud and desperate and almost pained. He sounds like Camille is ripping the pleasure out of him with those sharp, glossy nails. This is the best part of watching Tommy fucking a boy, the part where I get to see him losing control, throwing himself into it like a rutting colt, with those muscles tensing and that pale skin glistening with sweat. Even if I didn't have any use for boys like Camille myself, I'd pick them up just for the fun of watching Tommy enjoy them.

"You're amazing," Tommy says, as if he's reading my mind. He pushes himself up gently and turns over onto his side, so he's stretched out next to Camille. One arm slips around those narrow shoulders, and the other hand moves down to the boy's cock, curling lightly around it, stroking him tentatively. Tommy's voice is soft now, almost delicate, as he says "Is this alright?"

"More than alright," Camille says, pulling him down into a kiss. The two of them make a perfect picture. Their black hair gleams, and their brown eyes glitter, and to me it looks like the same flush of pleasure darkening both their faces. The similarity just makes their differences even more beautiful. They kiss as if they know each other inside out, and I find myself thinking: _If this is how well they work together now, then how much better will this be in a year, or two years, or ten?_

"Johnny…" Camille moans, clinging to Tommy with one arm and reaching out to me with the other. "Don't just watch, come over here and fuck me…"

"Yeah," the kid says, moving his hand from Camille's cock, down to stroke the curve of the boy's ass. "I got him nice and warmed-up for you, Johnny, so what're you waiting for?"

I force myself to pause, and wait, as if I'm really deliberating what I fancy doing, and then I put my glass down and get to my feet. "Come here, then," I say, grabbing hold of Camille's ankles. He's so light, it barely takes any effort at all to drag him over to the edge of the bed.

"Please," he says, breathy and soft, "I need it, I need it so much…"

"You'll get it," I say, stroking a hand over my cock. "But it'll be on my schedule, not yours." I reach over to Tommy, and grab hold of the back of his neck, so I can drag him forward too. "And you," I say, hauling his head into position, "what are you doing, laying around like you're finished for the night? Your job isn't halfway done, kid."

He grins up at me, and gets to work. I keep one hand on his head, as he starts to suck my cock, and the other I keep wrapped around Camille's ankle, squeezing it roughly, so he doesn't forget he's next on my to-do list. Only, with how hot and wet Tommy's mouth is, I reckon I'm the one in danger of forgetting, not him.

"Johnny, please…" Camille groans, wriggling a little bit in my grip. "Please fuck me, I can't stand it…"

He makes it sound like he's being starved. Well, maybe I am being too cruel. I can have Tommy's mouth whenever I want, can't I? I can have him on his knees at the drop of a hat, ten times a day if I feel like it, and here I am, making Camille wait while I take my time, savouring every flick of that hot tongue, every tight little tremor of that perfect throat. I feel a bit guilty, and then I remember who really owns Camille, whose brand of cruelty the boy's used to, and I feel like in comparison to that, maybe I'm the nicest guy he ever met.

"Alright," I say, pulling back. "Guide me in, Tommy."

This is the bit Tommy really loves. How many times has he knelt beside me like this, with one hand around my shaft and the other spreading a boy's ass open, with those eager eyes drinking it all in? How many times has he watched me push forward and feed my cock into a boy, inches away from his face, close enough he could dip his head and give me one last swipe of that tongue? He never seems to get tired of the sight. As I slide into Camille, my eyes keep straying onto Tommy's face, and the sheer joy in his smile makes me feel like I won the lottery ten times over. The best part for me, though, is knowing he's been there before me, knowing it's his come inside Camille, coating my cock as I thrust forward into the boy's ass, making that soft flesh so hot and wet and slippery, making it so easy to push it in deep and hard, right from the start. Knowing it's Tommy that did this, and he did it on my order, that's the best part of all.

"Please…" the boy says softly, drawing his legs up a bit higher and wider. "Please, Johnny…" There's no demands now, none of that petulance. Just need, and the knowledge that it's only me and Tommy that can give him what he wants right now. He sounds almost humble, and that's something I could get used to hearing.

"Keep stroking him, Tommy," I order, "but don't let him come until I say so."

The kid grins up at me, and wraps his hand around Camille's cock again, and says "Sure thing, Johnny," like it's the best job I've ever given him.

Between the two of us, Camille's got no chance, no chance at all. He clutches at Tommy's shoulders, digging his nails in hard, like he wants to punish the kid for being that good with his hand, and all the while he's breathing hard and groaning, wriggling underneath me, pushing down onto my cock, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut, like he's halfway to losing his mind. That's what I want most right now. Not the wet heat of his ass, not the smooth touch of his skin, not warmth of his body. It's the sight of him giving himself up to the two of us, that's what turns the key in my lock.

"I can't, I can't hold off—" he moans, breathlessly, frantically. "If you don't stop, I'll—"

"Do it, Tommy," I say, roughly and casually, like it's a throwaway pleasure. "I want to see him come."

The kid nods and says "Sure," and as his hand moves faster, I step up my own pace, hammering into Camille until the boy's sobbing and wailing underneath me, arching up away from the bed as he comes, raking his nails across Tommy's shoulders as if he's trying to draw blood. He sounds like he's dying, and he looks like he's in heaven, and I don't know which side of it is what throws the switch for me, but before I know it I'm coming just as loud and violent as he is, slamming into him as if I'm aiming to split him in two, and I can feel it in every muscle and every bone, seething and singing in every nerve, and it feels like fury and triumph all at once.

"You, you both…" Camille says softly, when it's done. "You're both horrible, absolutely horrible…" He smiles up at me, and if that's not the most beautiful smile you ever saw, then it's pretty close.


	5. Chapter 5

"You wanted to see me, Johnny?"

"Yeah," I say, nice and neutral. "Take a seat."

He sits down in the chair across from me, and folds his hands in his lap. I know this posture. This is Demure Kitty, the shy one, the one who's easily spooked. "Is there something wrong?" he says, with just the slightest little tremble in his voice. He sounds like one of those meek serving boys in you get in historical films, the type who works his fingers to the bone, and lives in fear of getting horsewhipped for not doing a good enough job polishing the silverware. So that makes me the villain, does it? Fine. I've had plenty of those myself. I can play the tyrant all night if I have to.

"You know as well as I do what this is about, Kitty." I try to mimic the way I've heard Miller reprimanding his staff, firmly and precisely, giving no quarter.

"I don't think I do," he says, shifting in his chair a little bit. The demure pose has given way to the arch one now, and now I've got Piqued Kitty raising his eyebrow at me, daring me to put him in his place.

"You've got a problem with Camille, haven't you? You've been giving him the cold shoulder since day one."

"Well, Johnny, you can't expect me to be friends with everyone who works here."

"I'm not talking about being friends," I say, and in my head I'm thinking: _Firm and precise, keep it firm and precise_. "I'm talking about being professional, Kitty."

"I've always behaved professionally," he says, frostily.

"That's not how it looks to me, and it's not how the other boys see it, either. I've had three of them in here already, giving me a heads-up, but they were only telling me what I already know. Even the clients can tell there's something wrong, Kitty." I sigh, and shake my head. "That bank manager who always asks for you, he was in here this afternoon, telling me he was worried about you— _worried!_ —and that's fine, maybe he'll buy you a few more pricey trinkets to cheer you up, but what happens when it's not Mr Tender Loving Care who decides to stick his nose in? What if it's one of your bruisers, next time? If one of those meatheads gets offended on your behalf and decides he's going to put Camille out of action just to see that pretty smile of yours? What then?"

"I… " he says, looking down for a minute, slipping back into the meek role just for a second. Then he looks up at me, and his eyes are wet and shining. "I can't be held responsible for what—"

"Oh, can't you?" I scoff, and get up out of my chair. "I'm telling you now, Kitty, if something happens to Camille because of a stupid one-sided feud, I won't just send you back to Patrick, I'll put you out on the street. You'll be gone so fast your feet won't touch the ground." The words sound calm and cold, like someone else's voice entirely.

"Of course!" the boy cries, standing up too. "Of course you'd throw me out. Of course you'd get rid of me because of _him_. I should just give up now, shouldn't I? Camille gets everything he wants, and I get nothing, and that's just the way it has to be, isn't it?"

"Nothing?" I should be laughing, because this is ridiculous, but somehow it's not funny. "You get nothing? You're our highest-paid worker, Kitty. The only guy that draws a higher salary than you is me."

"That's _not_ what I mean," he hisses.

"Alright," I say, sitting back down. I feel like all of the energy's trickled out of me, like someone's pulled the plug and now I'm empty. "What do you mean, then?"

"Camille doesn't even work," he says, folding his arms. "Oh yes, he sings, but only a couple of nights a week—that's not a job, Johnny, that's a subsidised whim. And for that, for that little bit of effort, he gets the lifestyle I've always dreamed of. He gets a wealthy patron who cherishes him, and a comfortable place to live, and beautiful clothes to wear, and so many gifts, so many expensive holidays— _years_ abroad, years and years of luxury!—he gets all of that, and why? Why, Johnny?" He stares at me, wide-eyed and furious. "Why him, and not me?"

There's a lot of ways I could answer that. Most of them would be flattering to Camille and maddening to Kitty, but the truth of it, the _actual truth_ , isn't going to make either of them happy. I reckon it's the last thing they'd want to hear, but I can't lie to Kitty, not even if it'd make him a better worker. I'd rather see him quit than lie to him.

"Luck," I say, bracing myself for the backlash. "It's just luck, Kitty."

"Luck?"

"Yeah." I laugh, trying to be cheerful, but it sounds rough and bitter. "Did you think I was going to say he deserves it?"

Kitty doesn't answer. He just sits down again, and keeps watching me.

"Camille doesn't deserve it any more than you do. Sure, he's beautiful, but so are you. He knows how to charm a guy, but so do you. You're just as good as he is, Kitty, but that doesn't mean a thing. What counts is being in the right place at the right time, and that all comes down to chance."

He keeps staring at me, and I feel like when he looks at me, he sees everything that's wrong with the world, everything that makes you want to throw in the towel and escape, only there's nowhere to escape to, and this is the best you're going to get.

"It's not fair," he says, finally, sounding about as tired as I am.

"No, it's not." I shrug, and rub my hand over my face. "Just like it's not fair that I'm sitting here, and all the kids I went to school with, they're all inside or dead. Why am I here, and they're not? Is it because I'm special? Is it hell. It's just chance. I was lucky, they weren't, end of story."

"So, what? You're telling me to keep hanging on, and eventually I'll get my lucky day?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "You might never find the right big spender to get you out of here. You might be stuck in this place forever. I'm telling you to keep hanging on, because what else can you do? Let go?"

Kitty doesn't say anything. We spend a long minute like that, with him staring at the floor, fidgeting with the gemstones of his bracelet like it's a set of rosary beads, and me sitting there watching him, waiting for him to make his choice.

"No," he says, eventually. "No, I can't let go."

"Right." It sounds firm, and confident, so I say it again. "Right, but if you're going to stick around here, Kitty, I need you to keep it professional."

He looks at me silently, and I can see him weighing me up, measuring me, trying to figure out whether I mean what I'm saying.

"You can have whatever feelings you like about Camille. Doesn't matter to me if you love him or hate him. What matters to me is how you behave when you're on the clock. Your feelings are yours, but you can't keep on scowling and grumbling every time Camille walks through the door. You need to put the same mask on when you deal with him as when you tolerate any other chump you'd like to see the back of. Smile, and be nice, and keep it professional, up until the minute you clock-off. Then you can do what you want."

"Well…" Kitty says, softly, looking down at his hands. "As long as I don't have to be friends with him…"

"Friends?" I can't help laughing at that. " _Friends?_ This is a workplace, sweetheart, not a social club."

He looks up at me, and gives me a sharp little smile. "You know, sometimes you sound just like Patrick."


	6. Chapter 6

It's been a while since I did any driving for the boss, and these days it feels like a treat just to be sitting behind the wheel. That alone would have me smiling from ear to ear, but tonight it's not just pride. Tonight Camille's sitting next to the boss in the back of the car, chatting to him lightly, filling in the silence with just the right amount of clever, gentle conversation. He's been on top form all evening, from the minute he walked through the door. He looked so beautiful, so radiant, and so graceful, I could barely speak. The boss just looked him up and down, and nodded, as if to say: _Yes, you'll do_.

The only thing missing from tonight, really, was Tommy. I know he's got to have his own friends and his own pastimes, I know that, I really do. But he's my boy, and I can't help missing him. So when the three of us were sitting around that table, eating and drinking, listening to the band playing, watching the couples dancing, I kept looking at the empty seat across from me and wishing he was there. Never happy, am I? Whatever I haven't got, that's what I start daydreaming about. Maybe that's been my problem all along. Maybe that's why I was such an easy mark for Camille in the first place.

"I don’t think I've danced so much for years," Camille says, as he gets out of the car. He was so smooth and light in my arms, when we danced together, you'd have thought he spent the last five years locked in a ballroom.

"You're not too tired, are you?" I give him a long, hot smirk, as I open the car door for the boss. "It'd be a shame to have to tuck you up in bed, so early on in the evening."

"Johnny." The boss says my name, and it feels like a slap in the face. "Put the car in the garage, lock up, and then come up to the first floor."

I nod and say "Yes, sir," but I give Camille another smirk as I get back into the driver's seat. I've never seen the boss giving him what for, and just thinking about it's got me hard already. Those bruises, I'm going to see exactly how he got those bruises, I'm going to see if he puts up a fight or if he just takes it, if he begs and pleads for the boss's attention like he pleads for mine, if the old man's as cold with Camille as he is with me. I'm going to see everything.

There's a light on in the front room, but I don't bother looking in. I know it'll be Joe, sitting there playing solitaire while he waits for the boss to call it a night. If it was any other boy upstairs with the old man, I might be tempted to stick my head through into the living room and give Joe a smart line, just to buy myself a little bit of extra payback the next time he gets his hands on me. But not tonight. Tonight I can't wait another minute. So I head straight up the stairs, quickly and quietly like a burglar, and the silence just makes it easier to hear that they've already gotten started. Camille's voice is the first thing I catch, saying something softly, and then laughing. As I turn the corner onto the first floor landing, there's a slap, and the door rattles in its frame. The boss must have shoved him up against it. Shoved, or thrown, I guess. I give it a few seconds, and then I knock on the door.

And all I hear is Camille's laughter. No command to come in. Not one word from the boss. It's like I'm not even there.

"I've been _so_ good," I can hear Camille saying, "I've been good _all_ night, sir, don't you think I deserve a reward?"

The boss doesn’t reply. He just gives a short, rough, icy laugh, and then there's another slapping noise, and a strangled little moan from Camille. He must have grabbed the boy by the throat. What I'd give to see that. Camille's eyes would be wide and moist, watering a little bit from the pain, and his lips would be parted, just begging to be kissed and bitten. But he won't even get that from the boss, oh no. What he'll get is a slap in the face, and that's if he's lucky.

"Please, sir…" His voice is raw and breathless. "I'll be good, I promise I'll be good, I'll do whatever you want…"

"You will," the boss says. "You always do."

There's a soft little giggle, and the boy says "Yes, sir, _eventually_ …"

I've got to see it. Whatever's going on behind that door, I've got to see it. All it'd take is my hand on that doorknob, just a little push, just to open it slightly, and I could see it all. I look down at the doorknob, willing myself to do it. My hand won't move. I can't. He hasn't told me to come in, and I can't open the door. My brain is screaming at me not to miss this chance, but my body won't fall in line. I can't do a thing. All I can do is stand here and listen.

"Sir…" Camille moans, long and soft and loud. I know that tone. That's the way he sounds when you're holding him down and pushing your cock into him, when he's arching up to meet you and pushing back against you, trying to coax you to give him more, trying to get as much of your cock as he can fit in that tight little ass. "Please, sir," he says, "fuck me, I need it so much, please don't torment me, please…"

I can't stand it. I've got to see it. The boss didn't say come in, but he didn't say I couldn't watch, did he? And even if it's wrong, if I'm crossing the line, he can punish me for it later. It's not up to me, is it? I don't make the rules. What's that thing Miller always says? _Better to ask forgiveness than permission_. So I'll do it. My hand's shaking, but I don't care. I reach down, and put my hand gently on the doorknob, and twist it as quietly as I can, and push.

Nothing. Just a quiet click of the lock, barring my way, making a fool out of me.

And then Camille's laughter again, soft and light and mocking. "Oh, I think Johnny wants to come in, sir…" he says, and the words melt away into a moan. "So cruel, to keep him outside like that…"

"He can take it," the boss says sharply, "maybe better than you could."

There's a loud, choked yelp, and another moan. I can picture Camille bent over in front of the boss, with the old man's hand gripping his hair and his waist, pinning him down so tightly the boy might as well be chained up. Maybe he _is_. Maybe the boss's got him cuffed, or roped around the wrists, so those soft hands can't get up to any mischief. Maybe all Camille can do is kneel there and take it, and run that pretty mouth pointlessly, helplessly, while the old man fucks him.

"Please, sir," the boy begs, "harder, hurt me, please, I need it—"

Another yelp, and a muffled groan. The boss must have his hand over Camille's mouth, just like he puts it over mine when he's had enough of my yapping. He must be gripping the boy tight, one hand over those beautiful lips and one wrapped around that delicate throat, squeezing him hard, crushing the pleasure out of him. The door rattles in its frame again, and now I can hear it creaking, I can hear the slapping of the boss's hips against Camille's ass, I can hear the boy yelping, I can the old man groaning faintly, almost too faintly to hear at all. Camille cries out suddenly, so loud you'd think he was dying, and then there's silence. Just silence. Nothing at all, except for the sound of my heartbeat thrumming in my ears, pounding in my chest.

And then soft laughter again, like the purring of a cat.

 

* * *

 

"You sure you don’t mind me taking him out?"

"Course I don’t mind," I scoff. "Why would I?"

"Well, he's your old flame, Johnny," the kid says. "Wouldn't be unreasonable if you wanted him treating special, would it?"

"The way I see it," I say, wrapping my arms around his waist, "sending you along in my place _is_ special treatment. There's no-one else I'd trust to look after Camille—well, apart from the boss and Joe, obviously—so stop fretting, will you? You're making _me_ nervous."

"Alright," he says, turning around to give me a kiss. "Long as you promise you ain't upset."

"If you make me repeat myself one more time, kid, I'm going to give you a hiding—and that'll make you late for your hot date, so don't push me."

"Sure thing, Johnny," he says, grinning up at me. "But maybe you can put that hiding on ice, for when I get back tonight."

"Oh, you're coming home tonight, are you?"

The kid grins again, and shrugs, and says "Well, maybe tomorrow morning, then."

To be honest, though, I _am_ a little bit sore right now, but not because I've just packed Tommy off to see Camille. What's needling me is the reason I'm not going along with him. I've put Miller off three times about this, and when he rang me last night I could tell he was close to breaking point. He won't outright order me to come to these things, but he sure as hell lays on the pressure when he's trying to convince me I _want_ to attend.

"Why have I got to be here for this?" I say, as I sit down next to him. This is supposed to be casual drinks, but he insisted on meeting up before the other guys get here, so we could 'catch up and make sure we're on the same page'. Who does he think he's kidding? I'm not on the same page. I'm not even holding the book.

"You don't _have_ to be here," Miller says, waving a waiter over. "But I thought it would be a good idea."

"Yeah, but why?" The way it comes out is childish and petulant, and I wince a bit at the sound. "This is your area, not mine. I don't understand why you want me involved."

"It certainly is your area," he says, and then he breaks off to order the drinks. It's water for me, and there isn't even the suggestion I might be allowed something harder. I guess this meeting really must be important, if he needs me sober for it. "As I was saying," he carries on, once the waiter's disappeared, "this _is_ your area, Johnny. Everything in this city is your area, and mine, too."

"Yours, maybe." I shrug. "Not mine."

"Johnny," he says quietly, but I can tell how frustrated he is, from the gleam in his eye that's as hard and bright as polished steel. "Right now you're just the manager of a host club, yes. But you've got to think of the future. You can't stay where you are forever."

I want to get mad and say: _Well, why can't I?_ But the waiter comes back with the drinks before I've opened my mouth, so I swallow the indignation.

"Councillor Knight is very sympathetic to our interests," Miller says, after a little sip of his gin. "At the moment he's on the side-lines, but that won't last. Ten years from now he'll be the one in control, and when that moment comes, I want him to have a very favourable impression of us."

"Of you, you mean."

"Of _us_ , Johnny."

"Alright, fine," I say, shaking my head. "But if you want him buttering up, why didn't you bring him down to Cloud Nine? Follow it up with a visit from Crawford and Bryant, just to underline the point, and everything'd be sewn up nice and neat, wouldn't it?

"We do have other options beside sex and violence, Johnny," he says, putting his drink down. "Sometimes I wonder if—"

But I don't get a chance to find out what he wonders, because that's when this Councillor and his assistant turn up to wedge themselves right in-between me and Miller. I say hello and shake their hands, and smile and nod, and I keep it professional like a good boy, but it's hard work. This is all so pointless. I could be out on the town with Tommy and Camille right now, but instead I've got to spend all evening playing nice with these guys, and for what? So Miller can feel a bit more secure about alliances that are only going to matter a decade from now, when he's in charge, when everything's different, when the boss is—

"Cheers," Miller says, raising his glass.

The others raise theirs, and I raise mine too, and it feels heavy and cold in my hand, like a block of ice.

The hours pass like days, and by the time we've finally packed the Councillor and his flunkey off into their expensive-but-not-ostentatious car, I feel like I've run a marathon. Miller, on the other hand, looks tired but satisfied, as if we'd spent the evening entertaining those guys the old-fashioned way. He also looks the nearest to approachable he ever gets these days, so I jump on the opportunity before it vanishes.

"Well, I hope you're happy," I say, yawning. "Honestly, making me miss a night out with Tommy and Camille… You ought to be buying my drinks for a month to say thank-you."

"Oh, I'd say it was worth about a week, at the most," he says, not taking my bait.

Alright, then. If he's not going to volunteer the information, I'll ask outright. I'll be honest and direct, just like everyone's been telling me to. "Did you say you knew Camille in the old days? I can't remember."

"No, I didn't say." Miller smiles at me, cold and razor-sharp. "But yes, I did know him, before he went away."

"Oh, right." I nod slowly, and I feel like I'm pulling up the words to ask my next question one by one, like hauling water up out of a well. "What d'you think to him being back in town, then?"

"I think it's marvellous," Miller says, very smoothly. "And really quite a testament to how advanced things are, these days, that a troubled early life like his doesn't doom an individual to seclusion."

"Yeah," I say, nodding, but I'm not exactly sure what I'm agreeing to. "Have you seen him yourself, since he's been back?"

"Oh no," he says, and I can tell he wants to grimace, or at least wrinkle his nose. Miller's got a very particular placid smile he does, when he's struggling to keep it professional. Right now that expression's plastered all over his face as thick as cold cream. "I really haven't had the time. You know how things are. Such a hectic time of year."

"Yeah," I say again, and I wish I had the courage to say what we both know I'm thinking.


	7. Chapter 7

Why can't he just say what he means? It's like Joe's got his own language, and I'm only just getting the hang of it, even after all these years. You can't take anything he says at face value. Like the presents, for example. I remember when he gave me my first blackjack, he said: _The old man wants you prepared for anything_. And for years I actually thought it was the boss who'd come up with that idea. Or like these cuff-links and this tie, which he shoved into my hands so hard the box got creased. _The old man says you need to smarten up your act_ , is what he said. It wasn't til I got home that I realised it just so happens that these are exactly Joe's favourite colour, robin's egg blue. You can't take anything he says at face value, and you can't respond to it honestly, either. Next time I saw him, I said thanks for this stuff, and he looked at me like I'd spat in his face. _Quit it with the screwball talk,_ was the nearest I got to _You're welcome_.

"Look at you," he says, smacking the back of his hand against my chest, right on top of that robin's egg silk. "Dressed up like you own the place, who d'you think you are?"

"No-one special." I shrug, and smirk at him. "Just the manager of a cheap little host club, that's all."

"Cheap?" He gives a grating laugh. "That club's the Ritz compared to the punk that runs it. I don’t know why the old man keeps letting you put your paw-prints all over that place. You should be washing glasses, or on your knees in the backroom with the rest of the cheap little hoods you've got working there."

"Oh, you reckon I'm good enough to be a real pro, do you?" I bring my hand up between us, and straighten my tie, keeping my eyes on his. "That's sweet of you to say, Joe, thanks."

"You," he says, grabbing my throat. "You need to stop running that mouth." And before I can, he shoves me backwards, and belts me so hard across the face I can hear ringing in my ears.

"Careful," I say, with a little laugh. "You put me out of action and the boss isn't going to be happy, is he?"

Joe just smiles that grim smile, and backhands me again. "I've been putting you in your place for years, you little punk." Another blow, closed-fist this time, right on the cheekbone, seething-hot like molten metal. "D'you think I don't know how to keep you in one piece?"

That's the thing about Joe that scares me and excites me the most, if I'm honest. The precision. He can beat me for hours, and the aftereffects are always exactly what he intended, no more and no less. He can make me suffer and howl myself hoarse all night, and leave me completely fit for work the next day, no problem at all. He can put me through hell without leaving a single mark, if he feels like it. You think about that, and tell me if it doesn't give you the shivers.

"Yeah, you've been at it for years," I scoff, trying my best to smirk through the pain that's throbbing in both cheeks. "Funny how it never sticks, though, isn't it?"

He grabs hold of me with one hand and pulls me forward, so I collide at full-speed with the fist he's swinging up into my stomach. It burns white-hot where his knuckles strike me, and I double over, coughing and wheezing, clutching my thighs to keep from stumbling over altogether.

"Looks like a long-term job to me," he says, and brings his elbow down across my back. It drops me to the floor so quick he might as well have kicked my legs out from under me. My spine hurts like it should be broken, but somehow I'm still moving, still feeling everything, still aching and throbbing all the way from my cheeks down to my cock. My hands splay out against the floor, and I try to push myself up onto all fours, but he's not having it.

"Where d'you think you're going?" He puts his foot on my hand, and grinds his heel down against my knuckles so hard I yelp like a dog being kicked. "A filthy little punk like you belongs on the floor," he says, leaning a bit more of his weight onto me, "so that's where you're going to stay." And he steps back, giving me maybe a second of relief, before he swings that foot up into my stomach.

"Alright," I say, coughing and wheezing as I curl up on my side. "Alright, I'm not going anywhere."

"Damn right you're not." He gives me another kick, in the ribs this time, so I end up sprawled out on my back and shuddering with ripples of pain. Before I can say a word, he puts his foot on my throat and glares down at me like he wants to rip me apart with his bare hands. That's too much of a provocation. Who'd blame me for slipping a hand down and stroking myself a bit, with him glowering at me like that?

"Look at you," he says, grinding his heel down harder against my windpipe. "All the promotions in the world won't change what you are."

"Yeah?" I wheeze, as I unbutton my fly. "And what's that?"

He gives me a horrible grim smile, moves his foot off my throat, and brings that heel down hard onto my stomach. It hits me like a ton of bricks, and I feel like all the air's drained out of me, out of my back and down into the ground, and in its place I've got a torso full of heat and pain, throbbing and burning. Now every swell of my pulse feels like a fresh blow right on top of the last.

"What you are," he says, leaning over to grab hold of my hair, "is a filthy little punk who needs to learn his place."

He yanks me up onto my knees, and drags me around until I'm on all fours, facing away from him. My head's right next to the coffee table, and I can just make out the edge of the envelope on top of it. That envelope's got to be the flimsiest excuse he's ever had for coming to see me. The paperwork inside it's important, sure, but Joe could have easily sent one of his lackeys over with it. Instead I got a surprise visit and accusing look that just _dared_ me to question why it was him and not Foster or Bryant delivering it. That's the beauty of a flimsy excuse. It's a reason to pay me a visit, and a reason to give me a beating, all at once.

"Come on," I whine, as he kneels down behind me and yanks my trousers down. By the time he's lubed me up and pushed a couple of fingers inside me, I'm frantic. "Come on, Joe, give it to me…"

"Shut that filthy mouth," he snaps, and he yanks hard on my hair with his dry hand, pulling my head back so it feels like the hair's going to rip right out. "I know you're a cock-hungry little bitch, I don't need it spelling out for me." But he leaves my mouth uncovered, and to me that reads like an open invitation.

"Come _on_ ," I groan, as his cock starts to force its way inside me. "I can take it, why don't you stop holding back and really let me have it?" Which is a nice line in tough-guy bravado, but all it does is make me sound that bit more pathetic when he pulls back and thrusts in again, and it knocks a long whimpering moan out of me.

"You can take it, can you?" He laughs at me, deep and rough and completely merciless, as he starts to fuck me in earnest. "Sure, you can take it, about as well as any other loud-mouthed little punk. Have you been picking up tips from your boys, eh? Or d'you show them how it's done? You should give lessons," he says, pushing my face down against the floor, grinding me into the carpet as he fucks me. "How to take cock like a filthy piece of trash and love it, in three easy steps. You'd make a killing."

The most Joe ever talks is when he's giving it to me. The rest of the time it's a barked word here and a gruff order there, but when he's fucking me, when he's got me trapped underneath him, when I'm squirming around and impaled on his cock, that's when the floodgates open and he starts to really tell me what's what. Seems like the more he talks, the worse I get at stringing a sentence together, too. I want to sneer at him and say _Are you gonna talk, or are you gonna fuck me?_ Just like Tommy does, when he's in the mood to fight. But all that comes out of me is a ragged string of moans and pleas. I threw my dignity away the minute I hit the ground, and my self-control went right along with it.

"Look at you, you filthy little whore," he says, with another mocking bark of a laugh, as he watches me slipping a hand down to stroke myself. "Can't keep those dirty paws off yourself for five minutes, can you?"

I can't answer, except to groan and buck forward into my fist. I wanted to keep it nice and slow, but my choice of pace doesn't stick. I can't slow down. Not with Joe shoving my face down into the carpet and gripping my waist so tight I feel like I'm in danger of snapping. Not with his hips battering against my ass, and his cock slamming into me as hard and brutal as any punch he's ever thrown. Even if I wasn't touching myself, he could probably force me to come just with that heavy, merciless rhythm. He could have me thrashing around and shouting my head off before I'd given myself the first stroke. Sometimes I think I could come just from the way he beats me, never mind the way he fucks me.

"Filthy punk…" Joe says, laughing again, the way he'd laugh if he was slamming the car boot down to lock you in, the way he'd laugh if he was throttling you, the way he'd laugh if he was wringing the life from you. "Let's see you hold off," he says, grabbing a fistful of my hair and twisting it hard. "Let's see some of that famous Castro professionalism in action, eh?" And he laughs again, because he knows I haven't got a chance. He's hammering on the door, and sooner or later it's going to bust wide open. A guy can only take so much.

"Go to hell, you old—" I hiss, as I start to come. He doesn't let me say another word. That hand in my hair pulls hard, yanking my head back like he's tugging on a choke-chain, and I howl and yelp and shout until I'm exhausted, until I'm slumping forward underneath him and resting my forehead against the carpet, closing my eyes and trying to keep my arms and legs from shaking.

"Just like I said before," he says, slapping my ass hard. "You're nothing but a filthy little hood. Just a bit of trash, only good for one thing, isn't that right?"

I can't answer him. I'm still breathing hard, light-headed and weak-limbed, and I can barely think straight. Only good for one thing, am I? Well, I must be damned good at that particular thing, because Joe doesn't last two minutes after I've finished. He's right there on my heels, growling out something that must be a string of insults, but I don't catch the words. I don't need to, I can hear the message loud and clear in every slam of his hips against me, every twist of his hand in my hair. _A long-term job_ , is the phrase I've got rattling around in my head as he gives me one last thrust. I can't help laughing. Seven years of trying to teach me a lesson, and I'm still just a cheap little punk to him. What are the chances it'll be any different after ten, or fifteen, or twenty?

"What's so funny?" Joe says, as he gets up. "Laying there giggling to yourself, you must be punch-drunk."

"Must be," I say, giving him the best smirk I can manage when I'm running on empty. He just shakes his head and mutters something I don't catch, but I'm not in the mood to argue. The silence is thick and solid around us, but it doesn't feel heavy, it doesn't feel bad. I don't feel like I'm suffocating. It's feels sturdy and comfortable. I almost feel guilty for interrupting it, but I've got to ask.

"Hey, Joe," I say, as casually as I can, once I've got my clothes back on. "What d'you reckon to Camille being back in town, then?"

He stops what he's doing, and just looks at me silently. In that stare, I feel like I can see years of tidying up messes and making inconvenient situations go away. I was expecting to see a bit of desire, too, but there's none of that. All I can see in his face is resolute, unyielding strength. "It's not my job to reckon anything," he says finally, staring me down, daring me to push him. "If the old man wants him around, that's that."

His voice is like a lid slamming shut, and for once I'm not tempted to prise it back open.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hello, Mr Castro," the boy says, with a big, beaming smile. "Thank you for seeing me." He's blond and pale, and he looks a bit underfed, but that's nothing we couldn't fix.

"Call me Johnny."

"Okay." He nods, and gestures at the chair in front of my desk. "Shall I sit down?"

"Yeah, take a seat."

"Thanks," he says, and sits down with his knees apart, so his jeans are stretched tight over his thighs and crotch. "So, my friend said you're hiring?"

"That's right." I look him over, trying to put myself in the shoes of our main types of client. This is one of the hardest bits of the job, to me. I can barely predict how _I'm_ going to react to each new boy that walks through the door, so how am I supposed to guess what the punters will think? "Have you done any renting before?"

He laughs, gives me a cocky grin, and runs his hand through his hair. That's a practised move, but whether it's been practised for pay or just for kicks, that's what matters. "Course I have," he says, a little bit scornfully. "D'you get a lot of first-timers knocking on your door?"

"A few." I give him a smile and a casual shrug. As it happens, we get loads. That's the problem with having a notorious club: every man and his dog knows about us, so we get every curious amateur in town ringing up asking for an interview, or worse, showing up on the doorstep demanding to be auditioned. The last time we had a real professional turn up unsolicited, I was so grateful I hired him on the spot.

"So, how's it work around here? Is it all corporate, or do you do things the old-fashioned way?" As he says it, he rests his hand on the buckle of his belt, and strokes his thumb along the metal. I'm interested, definitely interested, but at the same time I'm thinking: _Old-fashioned? Since when has this been old-fashioned?_

"I guess we're a pretty traditional operation," I say, pushing my chair back. His eyes follow me as I stand up and walk around to the front of the desk, but he stays where he is, and just grins up at me.

"You want to try me out personally, then?" His hand moves down a couple of inches, and that stroking thumb strays down to the bulge of his cock, and his grin gets sharper and sleazier.

"Let's see what you've got," I say, crooking a finger to beckon him. "We'll start with the mouth."

He slips down from the chair and kneels in front of me, and keeps his eyes on mine as he unbuttons my fly. "You want any talking?" he says, as he reaches in to take hold of my cock.

"Sure," I say, leaning back against the desk as he starts to suck my cock. "But nothing fancy, let's stick to the basics for now."

He goes for it full throttle. His mouth is good, and his hands are great, but he was right to suggest the talking, because that's where he really excels. He keeps it simple, just like I told him, but he's a fantastic actor, and to listen to him you'd think he really had been longing for my cock all night. It's a nice rhythm he's got, too. A dozen or so strokes of his mouth, and then he pulls back, working his wet fists over my shaft, telling me with sore-looking lips exactly how much he loves the taste of my cock, and how much he wants me to fuck his throat, and how he'll do anything at all if I'll let him swallow my come. It's nothing elaborate, but it's exactly what you'd need if you'd had a hard day, and you just wanted an enthusiastic boy to take your mind off things. It does the trick good and proper, and it's over quickly, far quicker than it usually is in these interviews. I get the impression I've barely scratched the surface of what this boy can do, but it's more than enough to convince me.

"Alright," I say, as he gets to his feet. "How about we put you on a week's probationary contract, and see how it goes?"

He wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand, and gives me a cautious smile. "What's the shift pattern?"

"Four on, three off."

"Do you pay per-job, or per-night?"

"You'll get a weekly wage," I say, with a chuckle. "Just like the rest of the poor saps that work here."

He smiles again, and nods, and says "How much?"

I say a number, and his eyebrows go up, just slightly. "And," I carry on, "you'll get bonuses occasionally, when business is good."

"Great," he says, nodding again. "When do I start?"

"Come back tomorrow night at seven, and ask for Tommy, he'll get you set up."

"Alright." He gives me another big, beaming grin. "Thanks, Johnny."

"Hey, kid," I say, as he turns to leave.

"Yeah?"

"It'd help if you told me your name."

"Oh, right!" he laughs. "It's Sam."

"Alright, Sam, it was nice meeting you."

"Thanks!" he says, running his hand through his hair again. "See you tomorrow!"

Once he's gone, I sit down on the sofa and put my feet up. It feels so nice to be lying down that I can't help closing my eyes. When I was younger, I used to have so much trouble sleeping I thought I was losing the plot, but these days I have the opposite problem. Nowadays I have to snatch half an hour of sleep here and half an hour there, whenever no-one needs me for anything. I probably spend more time napping on this sofa than auditioning boys over it.

I've been lying there for maybe five minutes, just starting to really relax, when right on cue, there's a knock at the door, and Tommy's voice comes through from outside. "Johnny, you got a minute?"

"Sure," I call out, and push myself upright again.

As soon as he walks through the door, I can tell there's something wrong. He isn't smiling. The expression on his face is grim and determined, and I can't help admiring it. When he's smiling, he's a knockout, don't get me wrong. But when he's serious, his face is a different kind of handsome. I could look at him all night.

"Listen, Johnny, we gotta talk," he says, in that serious tone of voice that never means anything good.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright," I say, patting the seat next to me. "What's the problem?"

"I've been asking around," he says, staying on his feet. "About Camille."

"You and your gossip…" I tut and shake my head. "You've been digging up dirt, and you've found something you don't like, haven’t you? Well, come on, then. Let's hear it." And I fold my arms, and wait for Tommy to start warning me about what a dangerous character Camille is, and how I should steer well clear of him, just like that interfering bookkeeper did five years ago. Before the kid's even said a word, I'm bracing myself to tell him he's wrong, gearing myself up to sneer at him for being so petty and small-minded.

"You said it didn't last long, when you were involved with Camille, right?"

"Right."

"But you _weren't_ really involved with him, were you?"

I know what he means, and I don't like it, but it's not something I want to get into right now, so I laugh and say "Sure I was."

He shakes his head. "You only spent a couple of nights with him, is what I've heard."

"Well, it's complicated, Tommy," I start to say, but he's not having any of it.

"Come on, Johnny." He looks at me sadly. "I asked Joe about it, and he told me the whole story. The way I see it, aside from those two nights, pretty much the whole thing was in your head."

I shrug, and say "Depends how you look at it, kid," but my voice is as weak as my stomach feels right now.

"So what I want to know is, how come you're both pretending like you had a big romance? I get why _you'd_ want to fool yourself, Johnny—but what I can't make sense of is, why's Camille playing along?"

Playing along, he says. Like it's a game. Like Camille's manipulating me again. Well, maybe he is. Maybe he got bored one day and thought: _Oh, I know, I'll knock on Johnny's door, he'll be good for a laugh_. It could be just another game, dressed up in all that talk about honesty, just to make it extra realistic. Maybe Camille's going to disappear again, when he gets tired of all this. Maybe the boss will send him away again. Maybe the old man's letting him get involved with me as a test, to see whether or not he's really better. Maybe it's a test for me. Maybe the boss wants to see how I handle boys like Camille. Maybe it's about Cloud Nine, maybe the old man wants to see whether I can keep my mind on the job, maybe—

"Johnny," the kid says, loud and firm.

"What?"

"You're getting carried away, ain't you?" He sits down beside me, and I can feel the warmth of him, the solidness of his body pressing against mine, leaning on me, and it feels as if he's giving himself up to me, even now. "I know that look," he carries on. "Your eyes cloud over, and you might as well have a sign up saying 'Sorry We're Closed, Come Back Later'."

I shake my head. "I'm just thinking it through."

"Johnny," he says, with a sigh. "You know what your problem is? You do too much thinking, and not enough asking. All this stuff, you've got it rattling around up there, ain't you?" He points at my forehead. "And you make up all these stories about what people are doing, and why they're doing it, and how they're feeling. And the thing is, Johnny, most of the time you're _wrong_."

I look away, down at the floor, at the tassels on the rug in front of us. There's a bitter feeling in my stomach, and in my shoulders, and on my tongue. "Of course I get it wrong," I say, shrugging. "I'm not a mind-reader, Tommy."

"Yeah, exactly."

"Well, what d'you expect me to do?"

"Ask." He puts his hand on my knee, and squeezes it firmly. "Like I said before. Don't make people's minds up for them. Just ask them, Johnny."

I don't say anything, not at first. I just put my arm around him, and pull him closer, and kiss the top of his head. The warmth of his body, the weight of him leaning against me, sometimes I feel like that's the only thing keeping me grounded.

"Okay," I say, after a long while. "Do you want Camille out of the picture, then?"

The kid laughs, and squeezes me tightly. "If I wanted Camille out of the picture, he'd already be gone."


	9. Chapter 9

_Don't assume, just ask._ That's what I'm telling myself, as I lay down next to Camille. All this thinking, all the wheels spinning and the cogs turning in my head, I could stop it all if I just opened my mouth and asked the question.

"So, how did you meet Tommy, anyway?" he says, with a little yawn and a stretch.

I laugh, and close my eyes. "We caught him trying to steal one of the cars."

"Did you really?" Camille giggles.

"Well, it was Joe's guys that caught the kid, I was just tagging along."

"And you've been together ever since?"

"Yeah," I say, nodding. I don't want to tell Camille about those three months up north with Rowe. I want to keep something for myself, so I change course, and say "How did you meet the boss, then? I don't think I've ever heard the full story."

He doesn't answer right away, and at first I think I might have overstepped the line. Maybe we're not close enough to talk about this stuff. Maybe I was wrong to ask in the first place. But then, after a minute or so, he puts his hand on my chest, and starts talking.

"When I was seventeen I ran away from home. I wanted to go somewhere else, somewhere bigger and better, but I didn't have the money to go any further than the city centre. I didn't have anywhere to stay, or anyone to ask for help. I didn't have anything, really. Just myself. It was October when I ran away, and you know what autumn nights are like around here. I knew I wouldn't make it through the winter. Do you remember that little bar there used to be near the docks, the one with the painting of the anvil on the sign? It was supposed to be called The Forge, but everyone called it The Hammer and Tongs. Did you ever go there?"

I shake my head, and say "No, I don't think so."

"You might have liked it. It was pretty rough. I only went in because I'd heard they wouldn't throw me out. I just wanted to get out of the cold, and I suppose in the back of my mind I knew there was a chance someone would offer me a bed for the night. I didn't have any grand plans, though. I…" Camille stops, and sighs, and starts tracing his fingertips over the hair on my chest. "I just wanted to rest."

"And he was there?"

"Yes," he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice. "Mr Turner and Joe were sitting at one of the tables near the door, and when I saw them I was terrified. I couldn't take another step forward. I just stood there, transfixed, until someone shoved me out of the way. I didn't know exactly who Mr Turner was—I had no idea about any of this, back then—but he looked so serious and so formidable that I couldn't do anything but stare at him. I must have been a pathetic sight. I was freezing cold, and drenched from the rain, and I hadn't been able to bathe or change my clothes for weeks. I must have looked utterly abject."

I try to picture it all, but I can't. For me, the boss became real on the night he picked me up, and before then he was just a scary story the kids on my estate used to whisper about when they wanted to frighten each other. For me, it's as if nothing existed before then, and the whole world sprang into being seven years ago. I can't picture the old man in his forties, and I can't picture Camille as a destitute teenager, either.

"In hindsight, I should probably have tried to proposition him," Camille says, with a little laugh. "I should have made the first move. But I was helpless. I couldn't lift a finger."

"And he made a move on you, did he?"

"Not at first. Not for quite a while." Camille pauses again, and when I look down at him, he's smiling. "He and Joe left the bar almost immediately, and as they walked by, Joe grabbed my wrist and shoved some money into my hand. Money, and a card with a telephone number. There was enough to pay for a hotel room for a week, and when the money ran out, I called the number."

"He gave you _his_ number?"

"No," the boy laughs. "It was the number for one of Mr Turner's clubs, one that was hiring new staff. I worked in the kitchen there until I turned eighteen, and then I got a job as a waiter in the same place."

A waiter. I can't help laughing at that. A boy like this, serving drinks to a bunch of guys who weren't fit to hold his coat.

"Oh, don't laugh," Camille says, but he's giggling too. "I'm afraid I wasn't a very good waiter, but I tried very hard."

"I'll bet you did." I smile down at him, and put my hand on his arm, and give it a squeeze. Knowing he's done jobs as menial as anything I've ever had, knowing he wasn't always a pampered pet, somehow it makes him seem more real. He's more than a fantasy now, and the stupid thing is, I could have found all this out five years ago if I'd bothered to ask him. I could have seen him as he was, as he _really_ was, before he went away. Instead I was just another chump, gawping at the bright lights and glitter, not seeing the work going on underneath.

"Well, that's my story," he says, turning over onto his stomach. "What about you, Johnny? What did you do before you met Mr Turner?"

"Oh, nothing much." I shrug, and look up at the ceiling. "Just odd jobs, whatever I could get."

He doesn't push me. He just watches my face, and after a few seconds, he leans over and kisses me lightly. "I've got to get dressed," he says, with a little frown. "I need to be at Mr Blanchard's by six o'clock."

"Camille." I blurt his name out suddenly, and it feels like the question is bursting out of me under its own steam. "Why did you come to see me, when you got back?"

"Well," he says, with that frown softening on his lips, "because I wanted to see if we could have something special, I suppose."

"But why me? We were barely involved, before you went away, and now you're back and you're acting like it was all meant to be, and I don't get it."

I say that, but in my mind I've got all the answers lined up: _It's because you're a gullible chump. It's because I can play you like a fiddle. It's because you're such a soft touch you'd throw yourself headfirst into trouble, just for a sniff of romance. It's because you're a fantasist, just like Miller says, and you can't have real relationships, so you jump at the chance of a fake one, because you know you're too broken for anyone to ever really love. It's because you know it's just a matter of time before Tommy realises what you're really like, who you really are, and runs a mile. It's because_ —

"I was lonely, Johnny."

"Lonely?" I sit up, and he sits up too, and gently puts his hand on my thigh.

"I just wanted to be with someone who knew me, even if it was only briefly. I know," he says, wincing a little, "I know the little fling we had was pretty flimsy. I suppose I was hoping that the connection we both have with Mr Turner would be a good foundation for something more. I think it _is_ a good foundation, Johnny."

"It is." I nod slowly. "It's the best foundation. That's why I hardly get involved with anyone who isn't on his payroll, these days."

"It's just easier," Camille says, with a little smile. "Because you know what it's like, and you understand the way I live, and what my priorities are."

"Exactly."

"But you're right, though," he says, shaking his head. "I did get carried away, when I was talking to Tommy. When we were chatting, I kept thinking about how nice it would have been, if I'd had a serious relationship with someone back then, before everything became difficult for me. I know I can't change the past, Johnny, but I suppose I was just enjoying the pretence. I'm sorry."

"It’s alright," I put my hand on top of his, and squeeze it. "I've got no need to talk, I'm just as bad. Wishful thinking's my middle name."

"Oh, is it?" Camille laughs. "I always thought that was Trouble."


End file.
